emma b. says

Thursday, February 22, 2007

Here we sit in our sort of gilded silver chair of super powers, cobbled in our wee apartment out of the spare bits and spray paint, a little of this and a little of that --- whatever is about the house, incandescent lightbulbs (such a fuss) lipstick and nail polish, the rasor in the shower, it's all good, shaved to the perfect bermuda triangle, no one to fall into. It matters not, we remind ourselves as the sky burdgeons and dribbles a little rain.

Here we sit, done and undone in our new finery, pink and cream, perfect for the newly vestigal and hardly reformed, we have laquered and relaquered our fingernails, which have never been free of the the accumulations, the food stuffs, the sex stuffs and the whatnots, I don't think I have ever really ever been clean.

Then he calls, takes back all the innuendo, takes back all the nuance, asks if I will pardon, tacit the willfull forgetfullness, it's just dinner between friends, it's just that, nothing for it, so why reach.

but between you and I, I did. I reached in my sleep and I reached at the shoe department at nordstroms, I have been reaching, so long and so very hard in my dreams and my waking demons who haunt all the vas et vient of the conversations I haven't had and most certainly wont.

I suppose there is a certain gallantry about being rejected before the fact on principal, and though I didn't slam the phone into the cradle and declaim through the veil of tears, well fine then, let's call the whole thing off and run off to Afghanistan to seek refuge in Cole Porter. No. I just got all stoic and snuck off to smoke imaginery cigarettes in the stairwell and tried really, really fucking hard to adopt a certan nonchalance and a certain laissez faire, so it goes and so I roll.

But at the same time I am not going to lie down, oh, but my history is full of lying downs, in the name of somebody else's peace, in the name of peaceable restitution, in the name of walking away without a public scene.

But again the hour is late, where do the hours melt to. I should probably keep from talismans and sentimental ocean breaks, stick to the plausibility of the bathroom cieling needing a vacuum, used to the unbreakable silence of long weekends, unsed to waking up unsurprised at the vastness of my empty bed, used to me. I will be no doubt too tired to employ any wiles, grace a the lateness of the hour and my inability to give a fuck for all the contrivances of seduction, is that I have voluntarily ceased to care or that any desire I might have nourished close to my long dormant furnace has gone ashen.


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