A Flash of Metal

Somewhere above me, an airplane glides by. And a pretty girl on it cannot know that I -am thinking of what my parents would say if I suddenly brought her over one day; -am thinking of how her legs would be shaped; -am thinking I’d know which orgasms were faked (aren’t they all?). I haul myself like luggage from my porch to my bed, hungover and sluggish, heavy as lead, laying on my stomach. The girl on the airplane and I never met. I tell myself often so that I don’t forget and spend all day here dying, dreaming of her flying, tearing her way through the fabric of skyline as easy as knives cut they way through warm water.

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~ by perfectionatrix on February 17, 2011.

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