sinter ([personal profile] sinter) wrote2009-06-23 11:01 pm

This, I do not blog.

Oh bah. Having a dark day. I miss you.

My mind is traveling the well-worn path of coulda woulda shoulda, I see ugly slack-jawed fat idiot females walking around with giant diamonds on their fingers, old bitches who look 27 from the clavicle down but like Leatherface from the neck up, they drive Beamers... And then there are the trophy wives, and I become sick with envy and regret, because I blew my chance to be beautiful in that way, or my genes wouldn't go for it, or I lived in a dreamworld for so long that I didn't notice or believe that time was passing.  When I was in my 20s I could go anywhere in my mind. Those paths, having been discovered dead ends, are overgrown with prickly things and dead things, and hidden there are other things, things that bite.

I think of your smooth skin and your skilled touch, realities that exist a few miles away, memories, not fantasies, and I close my eyes and try to make my heart not burn to ash. I try to step back and see you standing, and smile, maybe.