Monday, September 24, 2007

There are too many love songs

Ah, since no one reads this fucking blog, I've decided to post a story that, when I wrote it, my first thought was "no one wants to read this."

Here it is (I've put some commentary in parentheses):



Some kind of love song


I am hot chocolate and you are the cinnamon sprinkled to taste.

I still can't figure out what it is I like so much about the distinctive way you walk.

You laugh when I tell you that I'm sitting by the lake to read Moby Dick so I can get in the mood.

It's snowing sideways and I've lost my hat, my gloves, and my scarf on three separate occasions in the last month. You wrap your scarf around me. It is long and goes over my head, my ears, and wraps around my neck. One of your gloves on my right hand. My left hand is holding your hand in the pocket of your down jacket. I feel like singing. I feel like dancing. I feel like making snow angels in the street. (barf)

There’s a scratch in the record and Andy Williams won’t shut up, There’s no one in the world except the two of us, There’s no one in the world except the two of us, There’s no one in the world except the two of us, There’s no one in the world except the two of us. They sure don’t make ‘em like they used to.

Thank you for the water, but I've still got half a pint of beer to finish and don't worry about me, I'm fine.

I still remember the first time I saw you're laughter.

I have a book, second hand and abused. Water stains and warped pages. And marking the place where I stopped reading while I was on the train and mighty sick of all the poetics, there's a note in your handwriting. The corner of a notebook torn out. Blue lines and red marker. The name of an author you thought I'd like, what with my love of poetic language and all. (okay, I like this part)

I knew the moment I heard the chorus of that song and my chest felt like cement. Everything reminds me. (seriously? that line is bullshit, what am I? 14?)

I bought traps because, I told you, it is better to anticipate the problem than to wait for the consequences.

Okay, I shouldn't have said what I said, but that doesn't excuse you for kissing my forehead like I'm your sister or something.

Maybe I was making eyes at the waiter.

I drew a picture for you and you told me you thought the face looked like me and you put it on your refrigerator door with mismatched magnets and my picture was still on the door of your refrigerator the last time I was in your kitchen and I thought it was odd, what with your aversion to eye contact and all. And, that night, I knew to bring back all of the books I had borrowed from you and I knew to make sure you would return all of my books because it was very clear to me that we don't really care anymore so take the picture down already. (I might actually turn this into a story of its own)

I need to buy orange juice, but the store doesn't open until ten o'clock on a Sunday and I think, if I go to church I can get a taste of wine.

I am out of breath from running up all those stairs. And now, where will I go? Down the hill and up the stairs again. They call this "conditioning."

I still believe that a toad can give me warts. And that is only the beginning.




oh, Akron/Family, I love you so...


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1 comment:

bezdomnik said...

I read your blog, and in the past week, I've even recommended it to one other. so there.