Storytime... (KISS)

...the twisted little way I have of writing...

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

You have me still.

Go on; show an interest in someone else. You never seem to like anyone else but yourself.

Waiting here, it's two thirteen Am.; I wonder what I'm doing. You said you were going to visit your mother. That's the fifth time this week! I called her last night; she asked how you were doing. Now I don't like to accuse but I think there's something I should be afraid of. Two nights now you've spent away. "She's really going through a tough time." you say. I haven't slept in three days and I can't concentrate on anything.
The blank look in the mirror and I know there are words on the bottle in my hand. I can't see them. I can't see them to read them. Heh, I'm sure it's a bottle, sort of sure. I can't tell if it's a prescription bottle or another kind of bottle. But my brain remembers the word for the container is 'bottle.' I'll trust my brain on that one. But I squint to see what the letters say. This letter looks like a boot. A line up, a line down, about to Kick something. The boot is, I think the trash-can just went flying.
My boss keeps asking me what's on my mind and I really just don't know. You stopped kissing me when you come home. Am I just imagining it? I don't believe what every voice in my head tell me to.
The magnolia tree in the back-yard has begun to bloom; I remember our first year here. I thought it was an ugly tree, insisted you cut it down and plant something with big pretty flowers. The day you rented a chain-saw I ran out to stop you from cutting down such a beautiful tree. We laughed about that. I have never liked the smell of it, but I remember you and the tree and I betcha I can climb to the top just now. Where the birds nest is made of twigs and dryer-lint.
The carpet beneath my feet grinds into my heels and I've already gotten numb to the pain of it. Sitting here pulling petals off the highest Magnolia. The last rose you brought me is dead. I knew I should have dried it. I can't think of anything but the smell you had on you. It was something like a flower, but nothing like a flower-shop.
Maybe she's just a friend of yours. Hell, I have friends I call "mom." I'm sure that's all it is. A friend you call your mom who's going through a rough time. They need you now more than I do. Besides I haven't told you I started drinking again. I haven't had the chance to tell you about the car-accident. You haven't been around enough to notice the cut on my leg.
It was a bloody mess then, and to be honest with you I have no idea where all that glass came from. I remember it was clear and covered in red and it reminded me of the marbleized stained glass they have in old churches. Where the colour becomes part of the glass, not just something on the glass. You didn't notice the stain on the carpet from the foot-print I left. I cleaned everything, forgot to check the bottom of my foot.
You will. You'll be back to me soon. I know you will. Love. Trust. What we have can't possibly be gone.
You have me still, paralized with fear, I'm waiting for you to come home because you have to. If I move, if I move on, you won't come home. I have to be still and wait. Can't eat, can't sleep. Just stay still. just wait.
We aren't over. If it were like that, you'd let me know. No. I trust you. I trust you, don't I?

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