Somewhere – with computers on, their eyes light up; they send you songs; they ask for pictures that you took; they ask you if you read that book you talked about post-sex that day you said you shouldn’t but still stayed. I will never ever be a rich man – in style nor in bank accounts nor life; I am a very, very sick man – the thousands logging on for you tonight are each in their own way a bit more handsome, more interesting, and worth paying time’s ransom for but still I adore you more than any of them can. Even if it won’t withstand their daily nightly  routine siege and I’ll become one of them (unless I already am?) and write nothing that you’d want to read. A thousand tongues gathered, a web of intrigue – to keep them all straight must be so confusing so it’s probably come down to a standard approach – a form business letter, an interviewed coach saying yeah let’s get going; let’s get this done now. A thousand synced voices each with a unique nickname they’ve bestowed and a manner of speech that marks you two as special, whoever it is. A single night ending with a thousand kisses personally given by thousands of wishful stories that you know the ending too, don’t you? I would at least like to know mine.


~ by perfectionatrix on October 5, 2011.

One Response to “Polyandry”

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