Phone Calls and Hills

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Your perpetual rhetoric has never been a friend of mine, like frolicking phone calls or the way your teeth slide over each other. Right beside your peace of mind, but always beneath your own priorities. One hour is like a change of heart, insincere jealousy dangles between us with foolish pride. This is yours This is mine never worked for you. Maybe my acceptance of sarcasm has become overlooked.

Yes, I love you, but I need more than your name.

Strong Enough

There was a point in time where nothing happened to us.

Free floating and absorbent.

Untouchable.

But this,

THIS?

This happened to us. With each other, and there is no contending the origins.

We WERE the only fools.

I REMAIN the only fool.

Contesting the end is what I wasted my time on. My heart. My so called soul that was burning like an ember seekingĀ  a morsel of something to touch, to burn. To leave an impression on. It was never innocent. WE were never innocent. It was never for nothing. Nothing would have been painless. Nothing would have been fun. Like the one night stands that I have to fill the void that you have left with me. The void in which I have the desire to find people like you, interests like you.

Failures like you.

Like the ones that roll in and then out and then in and then out and then stabbing at the floundering existence of what it once was and refusing to give it up. But you. You are killing what you are fueling. It’s been gone for a while, so much so that I surprise myself when you walk back in to my mind, but is it you walking or me inviting? Which one. Does it matter? Does it matter that you walked out? Does it matter that I walked away? Does it matter that every morning you’re not there. Seven years later. DOES IT MATTER? I wish that you were stronger. Just strong enough for us. If I were weaker, would that have been enough to make you the strong one? The one that knew what was right and what was wrong, like the family rejection kind of wrong. How is that right? How is that the decision that you chose? To follow. to lay down.

It is said to follow your heart, for it is never wrong. How is my heart beating true and yours? Yours is right? Follow your heart? To what end, to what advantage. I have no heart. Not anymore. For I followed it once and it led me down a path of self defeat/loathing/rejection/discrimination. And once I got past being against myself you weren’t gone. I wanted you to be gone. I needed you to be gone. I need you to be gone.

Maybe it’s my own fault for believing in love. For trusting gut. The gut that knows what’s what.

Maybe it’s no one’s fault. To each their own, to follow what they are told, form within. From each other.

I wish that I was strong enough, to be stronger. I wish that I could give up.

Remaining Lack of Taste

Playing Tag in Rumsfeld Field of which there will be lingering questions of imputation, you point your finger to your favorite tree. I do not follow your finger, you do not notice. At the same time as a bird striking a fresh window you ask me the meaning of my tattoo. My ambiguous answer that you expected turns your eyes to towards a smile and your body towards the Feathered Oak. The grass around you stirs with your thoughts and the leaves whistle with anticipation of our next conversation. Rumsfeld told me once, that if I met you, it would be a mistake. I take my fortune with my mind wide open for the corner of your eyes have me peaked at interest. Still, a year later I have not discovered their truth.

I will never ask and you will never know

The bird musters up enough of a thought to fly away, my frisbee lay alone and forgotten. My fingers are tingling, your toes twitch, the grass holds it’s breath. In the blooming sunshine you mention the ladder that leans against my wall, question it’s purpose, admire it’s beauty, envy it’s secret. And with silence I have answered your next question, so you bare your teeth in an oblivious mockery of a smile, and shatter my wings. Rumsfeld returns to my night life.