Love sometimes feels like you are chasing a piece of paper, rushing after something caught in the wind and, trying to read the lines before they happen. You reach into the I knows, When would yous, Never yous, and believe for a split second the face of many faces is a possibility, is one that you own too. It says all your own words but better, with the inflection you always wanted. It screams out I love you, this face of a million men who have all decided to settle down at the table, like a insect with huge wings, and before he eats he re-describes you to him, your ins and outs, your pleasantries and rough edges, as if you were a worry stone moving from hand to hand. And he eats sloppily this legion, this what if possibility. He drags his food across his lips, spilling it from corner to corner, mistake to mistake, thinking he could smear you too, become a blur for both of us, become the I could never admit to, the sour too weak to heal. In this endless confrontation of nameless words, and voiceless crimes, is the gullible in its best suit. And for so long with that headless grin and mistaken identity, I thought he was my stolen innocence.
Posted on: Thu, 15 Aug 2013 23:24:31 +0000
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