The second hand on the clock isn’t a reminder that life is slowly slipping away. I prefer to think its one more second gone until I can see your smile again. Sitting here, in the dark, listening to a song that reminds me of someone else, trying to distract myself with inane mundane random pages on the net, can’t stop myself from thinking of you. You’re only a mystery to me, a future history I see. Is it wrong that I want to argue with you, and fake laugh at your lame attempts at jokes? As I age, my fantasies get more logistic, less R rated. Like the morning I was making coffee, we were talking about how we were going to split the utility bill to the apartment we lived in, in my imagination. Stopping myself short of the ridiculocity of that dream, I went to the fridge for some cream. I wish you’d taken the last of it.
~g
No comments:
Post a Comment