A man can’t be happy with a bottle and a woman. Hes has to choose one. So falling off the wagon for me is a return to form, before we learned how to judge each other, outside the barriers of suffering. Heartache aint just pretty songs, it’s memory of the body, carnage of the blood, when shame didn’t exist and knees were made for grass, concrete and scraping. How do you move on from a lost love?
People love a mystery and hate the answer.
But I can’t help but keep falling if thought of her makes me lose my step. How can I catch my breath if every chance her lips take it? An impossible pink, thick as a consonant or poems in a boot. Been down that road of doubt and I don’t beck, and I have my doubts with people, but I suspect everything except the flesh. Appearance blinds, words reveal, but phrases have disguises too.
Like when I lie and say “I need you,” but really mean “I can’t stand myself,”
She takes selfie pics in the bathroom with her foot on the sink to show off her shoes, a soft grunge glamour and I’m all about that that life. Such a peaceful face- long nose, bangs down her forehead, big hair and anime eyes. The kind of girl a man imagined into existence while in bed and dreaming off into the ceiling. Chaos, counter-culture and pandemonium. A monster, but the good kind that stirs her coffee counter clockwise. Better than these animals that don’t eat meat but put sneakers on dogs because it makes them walk cute, read a Simone De Beauvoir quote and get obsessed over France, start an Instagram and think they’re professional photographers.
“Who did that to you?” She asked me, and runs her fingers gently across me like a wound. I can’t stand the caress of her eyes.
I am uneventful and they write songs about women that look like her; golden haired with eyes expecting miracles.