Brainwave tycoon.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Deja vu for no reason.

Submitted: April 01, 2008

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Submitted: April 01, 2008

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I cocked my mouth in an unexpected, passive aggressive split second as she lies there second guessing herself. First; by the bedroom drapes she created a second layer of skin, I indulged in the vacant space of silence to tell her the atmosphere didn’t fit her style. Second; by my widened and dilated pupils covering her insecurities too easily as if I shot and aimed at her walls she determinedly built, I missed her kiss by the thousand miles I could see, but we still can’t touch our own bones.

So I made this up; she and I never spoke a single word. I just poured over her like a rain cloud, a slicing blade of ice to her ice skates, the right words never spoken into a microphone, a child choking alone in a house forgotten, switched lights with red and green and fallen eyes between two crashing cars, the love made between politicians and innocence. Swift; soft, vulnerability, she cries onto me with movement into my jaded ears like dull spears. I’m clearing my throat so I can digest the moment right. With a stocked up esophagus for times like these, hibernating ideas like her meal I am coddling a new breed of disease.

Okay, so even I made THAT up. We never got as close to touching. I just stood there; she was sprouting and I was disappearing in her lips’ hush. So much for alternating words into cities; feet smothered like my eyes just gazing like a fucking mute on a commuter train of rejected thoughts that could never grow, even in the midst of a monsoon, brainwave tycoons refusing to work on the sidewalk of a strike, a well rehearsed chorus line so unlike me. Never hand me the opportunity of an open mic.

(Copyright)


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