Anchorite Asceticism, 2

This isn’t to say that I didn’t miss the lovely dry liquor of your kiss. This isn’t to say that I went away because I couldn’t haunt your bed every day, no. Leaving, I guess, was the best I could do, the best way to show that I’m lost and confused by willingly dropping (the blood was profuse the first time, not stopping and only me sobbing an ancient old rag called the blues) from out of periphrals and new contact lists. Partly a desire to know I was missed but mostly because I needed to see who I was – stripped of my music, sarcasm, drugs, long scars from nails dug in by my loves – thinking isolation would suffice because it always does that’s why I slept for fourteen hours certain seasons years ago. I don’t know why I’m telling you, I wanted you to know.

The desert is war, lovely dry war. Each mile I walked I expected more … – not buildings or cars – maybe atmosphere? At least some gravity to anchor me here on the dusty ground parallel to the lense of the sky that is bigger than any beautiful girl’s eyes. In the desert, there’s nothing to hide behind because all of this nothing is mine.

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~ by perfectionatrix on January 19, 2010.

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