Pale Wrists, Nov. 1+2

Not a single soul I knew to wave to in the highrise, on the pavement. Fell in love a couple times, not serious, enough to try imagining how things could be if she would also notice me, another blurred face on the street or elbow from the aisle seat. Is everyone so lonely that eye contact is enough to grab a hold of something wholly false? I guess it’s fun, and doesn’t cost a goddamn cent to play along and not miss it once it has gone and I am still riding this train, hoping that you’ll board again. You don’t, or won’t. But I am not owed a thing, I shoped up and got my check, my second glance, my plea for death (I guess it did cost 40 cents and three dollars not mine to spend). But whatever, I have just misplaced whatever keeps my moods at bay enough, I’d say, for me to lay on the tracks of a coming train until I’m pulled up by pale wrists, brought back to life with three wet kisses and a slap to know she’d miss my skinny hands around her hips. The car is quiet, silence, bliss, and suddenly things start to fit.

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~ by perfectionatrix on January 4, 2010.

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