Inside golden bends that stick to themselves, softly falling ribs. And the leaves from the
column tops strain their necks, bending towards the coolness and away from the stone. (
Her billowing blue sash). And drops of salt on my cheeks. (
Made good through love... maybe that's the problem).So then, what am I afraid of that it never seems to go...
********************************
Anyway... and later and the most fucked up night yet. I must have cried four times on Coronas and ass fucked and he slapped me. And I am still empty and I am still dead and he still won't say that he loves me and I am still the same after all this fucking and the bliss of this afternoon.
Everything was perfect before... And I was sure that it was all in sync... But the fucking Hudson lies! And the breeze and the lips of those kids and the peace and my waist and the metal railing with the three looming towers pressed against the George Washington skyline. And I should have known!
And I can't even see anymore
through these tears and there is no one at the other end of the clouds.
Why do I always fuck everything up? Should I, at this point, expect anything less...?
