Index - Profile - Archives - Notes - DiaryLand - Random ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 882. (This was written last night on lined paper, with blue ink.) He looks to my y's, the cross on my t's. He knows exactly where my line is drawn, never failing to strandle it, like the well worn horse it is. There are people that still listen to Jeff Foxworthy, and those people are my neighbors. What would you glean from my s. My acomplishment this week was making the perfect glass of iced tea. It will not, and cannot, be duplicated. The credits to my love story are fading though the sliding glass door, when I realize I've been writing all along, waiting for the key to throw the tumblers in locks, it would sound precisely how your watch sounds as it hits the ground, when you get undressed to make my y's come back up. In a loop. It's past 11:30. I'm siting in curlers, drinking imperfect iced tea, in my pajamas and slippers. I know the smoke from my cigarette is creeping into my apartment. I know the phone can't ring unless there's someone on the other end of the line. Yes, Jen, it would be kinetic. I wish you knew how right you are. I miss your laugh, you know. My life changed last week. I realized the only person I answer to is me, the scariest and most freeing experience I've ever had. Well. Since realizing what love really is. 11:49 a.m. - 2004-05-30 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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