the shortest of shorts
You look like you haven'’t eaten in months. Her cheeks a little hollow now. She smokes too much and I wish I had her legs. We sit in front of each other nodding through the silence. I wish I were still on the train reading my book, or still in the architects bed.
Leaning back on our blue sofa I try and throw green olive pips out the window, but it's only slightly open and they hit the window pane leaving an oily residue before falling three floors. I decide not to ever clean it.
In a dark crowded room full of strangers we all watch the puppets move to the dramatic haunting orchestra. I think about dating puppeteer, about how intricately he moves his fingers. Obviously that’s purely for the foreplay.
I think about my destination. I think I'm moving with my arms folded. A gesture too negative for my new leaf. I watch the man infront of me on the tube, with lovely brown skin and blue shirt. I'’ve come back to my city, with all the men in navy suits and blue shirts. Our eyes catch each other, and relize that we are mirroring each other. Arms crossed. I try not to smile.
So old people still do have sex? We try not to think about it, and both go back to our mac screens. I hear what she is writing and then asks me. It's nonsensicalnsical. I wish I was getting better. It's been a while.
It's been a while since words formed to sentences for me to write. The east side of the world made me thoughtless. I hated been stared at, I was too tall and too blonde and too fat. I look at the black outlined silver stars placed on our livingroom wall and that soon will be taken down and will never be seen again.
The boat that I bought for him sits on my desk on top of the books I savoor this. We are sitting in front of each other, or we might be standing, and I try and picture his face when he sees his present. Will there be love in him, love for me?
I don't know what you are talking about. I’ve lost what we are trying to say to each other in the midst of the bullshit we send to each other. I smell the card sleave of arcade fire, a band that will forever remind each other of each other. I smile at the title of the first song, Old flame.
Leaning back on our blue sofa I try and throw green olive pips out the window, but it's only slightly open and they hit the window pane leaving an oily residue before falling three floors. I decide not to ever clean it.
In a dark crowded room full of strangers we all watch the puppets move to the dramatic haunting orchestra. I think about dating puppeteer, about how intricately he moves his fingers. Obviously that’s purely for the foreplay.
I think about my destination. I think I'm moving with my arms folded. A gesture too negative for my new leaf. I watch the man infront of me on the tube, with lovely brown skin and blue shirt. I'’ve come back to my city, with all the men in navy suits and blue shirts. Our eyes catch each other, and relize that we are mirroring each other. Arms crossed. I try not to smile.
So old people still do have sex? We try not to think about it, and both go back to our mac screens. I hear what she is writing and then asks me. It's nonsensicalnsical. I wish I was getting better. It's been a while.
It's been a while since words formed to sentences for me to write. The east side of the world made me thoughtless. I hated been stared at, I was too tall and too blonde and too fat. I look at the black outlined silver stars placed on our livingroom wall and that soon will be taken down and will never be seen again.
The boat that I bought for him sits on my desk on top of the books I savoor this. We are sitting in front of each other, or we might be standing, and I try and picture his face when he sees his present. Will there be love in him, love for me?
I don't know what you are talking about. I’ve lost what we are trying to say to each other in the midst of the bullshit we send to each other. I smell the card sleave of arcade fire, a band that will forever remind each other of each other. I smile at the title of the first song, Old flame.
posted by HT company at 18:42
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