2004-09-20 - 3:00 p.m.
Worse For Wear.
I never felt more real than that, lying there. Thinking things over. Looking at Abbey Road, feeling how light my arm was. I swore, I promised, that I wouldn't play this certain albumn till such a date.
And he sat there. Playing the piano for me. Slashing at his knees. Telling me to understand. Crying, burying his hair in my shoulder. His black mixing with my blonde, becoming one mess of everything they all tossed aside, one accoustic siloette. He screamed "I'll always find you."
Why haven't you found me?
It's just me, looking down, hands holding my cheeks. Her hair blowing in the wind. Blowing ribbons across the feild. Just laying there. Eyes glazed over, a lady bug crawling through the grass. Just laying there.
The dishwater is cold. The bread's gone stale. This aftermath just won't add up. Why didn't he just come home?
You said you'd do anything just to make me smile. Why didn't you just call instead?
I'm not in for kind gestures. Or loosing friends. Nice boys. Hot tea. Or extra-curricular activities. I won't accept your data or this dream. The flowers you'll send end up dried and dead all in a vase on my dresser. It's ok.
It's not about the consequeces, it's not about all the Miss Americas we should have kissed. It's those five minute conversations we have once a week, how we only talk about you and then you have to go. It's every conversation you've ever dominated, all those times I had to wait to cry with myself because one tear strained voice was enough to bare. It's because no one understands where I'm going with this charade.
Let me explain.
It's ok.
I'll tell you again and again, I'm always fine. It's always ok. This is my only way of making a statement. Of telling you off. Because I never really could say it to your face.
I'll always tell you it's ok.
I'm not.
