> In a little room, there stands a vial. In the vial lives the Truth.
> I drink, no, I wallow in it.
> It tastes of feces and incense. I can't get enough.
> My bed becomes a living grave; I realize this is all there is.
> Banana bread and black sophistication.
> I feel like a puppet, totally separate from happiness. I'll never
> know it because I'm not perfect like them. I have a dream. It's a
> wish.
>
> I want to be muscular.
> Muscular and learned.
> Learned and empathetic.
> Empathetic and natural.
> Natural and wicked.
>
> You made me this. You straddled me and made the insanity actual. You
> made me want love.
> Lay me down. Kiss and place your hand right on my chest, but don't
> breathe those words, those words I'd kill a dream to hear:
>
> "...you know, I think we're gonna be really good friends."
> You ruined my life, B.U.D.D.Y.
> You made me love it.
>
> Sent from my iPhone
1 comment:
T Darling,
I miss you and our late night coffee talks. Hell, I even miss doing those damn dishes while you yell at me and tell me to quit. But mostly, I miss walking into a room and having you tilt your head to one side and swear a greeting.
Obviously, I've stumbled across your blog.
It's been a highlight of my week.
I don't expect us to keep close touch, but it is nice to know that if I want to, I can find out how you are. Because I wonder sometimes...because I enjoyed sitting with you for a year.
Love.
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