Saturday, June 13, 2009
when we decided not to tell
we write our own stories of who we are. I fill in the blanks with i love you's and goodbyes. with road trips and snow globes bought while on holiday. A motel room where we decided to fuck but not stay the night. pen and paper, mangoes and lime. wedding cake, a mariachi band. summer days, silently watching the rain. I wait for the horn section to kick in- my favorite part. I listen for heartbeats. I watch your lips for endings. I imagine the taste of sunshine. the sound of a cello surely means an end.
Ive built on this story. the story of me. swollen with pretty girls and lies, collectible toys, art, words, photographs, tattoos. more words and then- you. a moon, the sun and stars and then- her. .
this is something like me and nothing like me. It's created. It's fiction and i live it.
a death, a birth. a death, a re-birth. a song. that fucking song. my drug, my ghost. my gift.