The Master of the Female Half-Lengths

So you have this whole life that nobody remembers; all the details become fuzzy, slowly mushing into nothing- converging upon some dream that we all forget forever – all that’s happened is a fragment of some unnervingly staggeringly large and constant magic that is really how things are (I know my bar for one would not remember me – all the accidental reminders would be absent in a week or two; they’d move on to new happenings and moments). I am haunted by a lowness – dragged so far below the surface I’d go blind if I saw light. And when I try I only do so so that moment when I die I have nothing to regret – no last wet tears or death bed sighs –

– the painter of a woman is a happy man tonight because it’s warm and there’s a moonglow and the breeze sneaks through the window, ruffles curtains (like my hand below the hemline of your skirt) while the wet air quells some thirst and we get drunk on heavy breathing. It’s a night where there’s a feeling that we’ve gone on some vacation, that the traffic sounds like waves and I, the master of the half-length, thank the stars for your existence – for your still stubborn insistence that if I speak you’ll listen and if I go you’ll miss me for a while.

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~ by perfectionatrix on March 14, 2013.

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