prettylittle 19 - 21
In the middle, I spied him. How I do, & does everyone, remember us at an early morning escape, ascending from all between & this that in the dark. Driving that night, in from the drunk-stench, wearing black knits. But now as always... aphonia. Your father’s long journey home with a poolstick as prop. I suppose this loss of voice, I think of it as explanation. The only song is organic, & so we were. I feel like I recognized him. He looked on my nerves, as functional disturbance. Driving down, that’s worse than staying nervously around, wondering symbolic. The vocal organs, late at night. About this, persuade me from the feigned passionate speechlessness.
It was in January, simple. Having to enter, that sadness expressed by muteness. Days after we met, staying nights. Loss and apoplexy, and I, sitting over there. Of course he used longing as his sudden loss. In the passenger seat, be tempted, and see someone, relate to the song. Body function turquoise if he comes. She has since asked him never to. To all the impunity we were listening; we asked him to leave, return, and he agreed. Nothing but things I doubt presently. I know, knowing it. I’ll throw approbation.
Before now I’m hungry for it, all terrible habitations. I’m serious this time, approving, and we both want sex badly. He wore black when I announced that formally, officially; we looked over to the left at the same exact moment. Sex loneliness at the risk of a tune. Praise the empty, even. Maybe I won’t as I don’t believe, I had the arboreal lot. Any sex that’s pleasure, chiefly empty (it was usually empty). Maybe the desire will be what they were. Right now animals caught our eyes, overwhelmingly. Not altogether uncute. I have made it, living in trees, empty, but filled platonic. He looked quietly in my trees; hundreds of you are thinking unimpressive. This was less arcanum, tiny, I suppose, still very pretty. But should one need a secret, a mystery lines up in rows to explain what I’ll do.
