emma b. says

Saturday, February 17, 2007

And I am Telling You That I am Not Going (Except that I have already left the building)

Sometimes the drum roll is half a beat behind, but you in your silly pants and dreaded white patent leather boots have already turned some kind of existential corner, pulling on your meteroric trombone, puffing, huffing and puffing, bleat your goodbyes like you hardly even noticed them. Except that you did.

You will come to town, and we will flirt over wings, I have every intention of dragging my quarry to my lair, I have every intention of savoring every orgasm I can coax. I have every intention of letting the roll of my ocean break against your thigh, and were I not such a lady I would surely gobble you, Grendel-like, in the honey-heat of that moment that I imagine. Munches on it's bones it does, sucks the marrow... Sucks the marrow and tosses the savaged bones aside, rests on it's haunches and unleashes some kind of howl, full of full, full of blossoms and unfettered wildness and depth of sorrow and beginnings and endings, but mostly since I am telling you that I am not going but really since I have already left, I would rather speak of branches of dogwood and of quince.

Since there is no use in telling you that I am already gone, not that you might notice, let us observe flora and water. When we are dreaming when we are three quarters awake...

I forgot the starlings. Dark clouds of effervescent birds on the horizon... but that's not...

No, it's not that I have no words, it's just that the statute of limitations has run out, it's only that, I was going to say that the magic has run out. Because I am who I am, and because I must adhere, I am telling you, though you will never know it, that I have one last slender ember with your name engraved on it, engineer. You will either ignite it, or I will bury it deep in the graveyard of remembrances and I am telling you that you will cease to be part of my presence. I am telling you that, I am telling you that I am once and for all definitevely done. (nearly) gods bless the saps on the verge, bless us to the scarlett centers of our love charred hearts.

Take your pick girl, you have the tuburcular world that beckons, and all the half-assesd adventures... there are no guarantees, and there are a finite number of french horns to flesh out your soundtrack, there is love in the corners where you appropriate it, everything else is black and white early french farce.

What the hell anyway, today was a very good day and I am happy.


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