On a Sunday.

I'm sick of your sass. Who cares if I've drowned myself in my bubbly sorrows swimming ten miles to reach the cusp of your lips so that I can have a chance at stroking the plush fur of a woman gone long time ago. Who care if mine eyes are no longer yours and I'm just running on and on in a memory so that you can no longer shout that you once knew me. I don't know where these scripts go or where my fingers trail, all I know is that today I spent five hours in the library poring over the remnants of a past far gone and it felt good. Your judgments have no traces on me, you ridiculous fog. I know I once walked the trail of the beaches that spread themselves wide and generous. I know I once had friends who cared, who spoke words that I heard before they were uttered. I know that this is temporary, so. temporary. that it hurts me to even think about what things may be a year two years five seven from now on. And if you want to remain close, to hug my words till they are squeezed till their drops limit then I don't frankly care because once they are released they're not really my pets, are they now? You knew this yet you are no longer known to me because you've changed and I expected as much but it's still unwelcome news arriving on the lips of a crow now estranged because in some small part, I expected to find the you that I once possessed. How is it that we are the focus of our own obsessions yet others are living their own roles with such fervor that we can no longer use building blocks, we're constantly taken by surprise, taken by the gasp, taken by the tail?

My fingers may tingle till they fall and my toes may wiggle till they jive but in the end it's the same old me that you never managed to know despite the best efforts of your limited reach. I wish I could've opened myself up to you but it was never meant to fit so and I assumed it was foolish to try because the sofa hugs me so well it was like the lover that I dreamed I'd have one day. I'm sick of your words, sick of your inane sufferings, sick of your total bullshit that you shove down me every day every second until I don't know which way is down and if only I could kill you I would relish the opportunity to do so with my own flesh clamping down on your veins like a fiery delivery of a play that once was written by a man, maybe a woman.

Don't say that I'm too vengeful because you know it's not true.