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Literature Text
Last summer, you came in with nothing but a bike and scotch, and taped my life to yours. Your adhesive caught on quick; I was stuck on your words that pushed our chat lines to well past onethousand.
(I was sorry because I meant more to you than you did to me.)
Autumn was a bitch; we'll call it fall. Yours was a routine I could live with, highway-fast in fact. I fell over myself to lick your fingers; they were addictive. You obliged; I never knew spotlights could be so blue.
You sent me snow in the winter. I never found you your Christmas song. Winter was cold; the sky was clear but I couldn't find my sunshine. I wondered if you had found a place in the frostblanket. You whispered through the walls.
Spring came, but the ice didn't thaw. No flowers came (for me) in May, even with all the downpours in April. You had some and some, but you shared all the wrong things. The routine was a routine again and I slipped from your hands. I found my pocketknife buried under schoolpapers and your notes.
This summer, I tore the words off my walls; the tape left frayed. Your agenda became seven times a day; mine crumbled to week oncely. Our exchanges were bland, shallow found a new meaning. The stars were cold, the streetlights struck me across the eyes, and I choked in the dust. I couldn't find any blue anywhere.
(I'm sorry because you mean so much more to me than I did to you.)
(I was sorry because I meant more to you than you did to me.)
Autumn was a bitch; we'll call it fall. Yours was a routine I could live with, highway-fast in fact. I fell over myself to lick your fingers; they were addictive. You obliged; I never knew spotlights could be so blue.
You sent me snow in the winter. I never found you your Christmas song. Winter was cold; the sky was clear but I couldn't find my sunshine. I wondered if you had found a place in the frostblanket. You whispered through the walls.
Spring came, but the ice didn't thaw. No flowers came (for me) in May, even with all the downpours in April. You had some and some, but you shared all the wrong things. The routine was a routine again and I slipped from your hands. I found my pocketknife buried under schoolpapers and your notes.
This summer, I tore the words off my walls; the tape left frayed. Your agenda became seven times a day; mine crumbled to week oncely. Our exchanges were bland, shallow found a new meaning. The stars were cold, the streetlights struck me across the eyes, and I choked in the dust. I couldn't find any blue anywhere.
(I'm sorry because you mean so much more to me than I did to you.)
Red Hot Chili Peppers - Scar Tissue
Maybe when you have the time, you'll get it.
Until then, irony'll be my daily bittersweet drink.
In other news, this took up 10 text drafts and more minutes than I remember while sitting on a bus to Vegas.
Edit: Provided the title for *AlecWolfe's piece, Autumn Was A Bitch; We'll Call It Fall, found at [link]
Maybe when you have the time, you'll get it.
Until then, irony'll be my daily bittersweet drink.
In other news, this took up 10 text drafts and more minutes than I remember while sitting on a bus to Vegas.
Edit: Provided the title for *AlecWolfe's piece, Autumn Was A Bitch; We'll Call It Fall, found at [link]
Comments7
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the progression is fluid, but sharp,
perfect vagueness, like little pictures. This is fucking brilliant.
perfect vagueness, like little pictures. This is fucking brilliant.