you know, sometimes.
this thing called love?
yeah, about that.
I know nothing about love.
but enough to know that this was never it.
he told me this once, with that imperceptible twinkle in his eye, (that twinkle that made you want to look away), he said that this was never love.
I believed him then.
I believe him now.
we used to talk of stars and gold sheets to wrap ourselves in.
of lies and evasion, of risk and risque.
of the water boys in the war, running to quench thirst and blood.
of haute couture and hate, animal skin and fragile fingers.
of pterodactyls and pomeranians.
we used to talk.
now we see each other, we might smile.
we might share a little piece of us with the other.
we know.
killing ourselves with everything that might have never happened.
everything that never happened.
anything that didn't happen.
us.
this was never it.
we knew it from the start
(at least I did)
this massacre of our wants.
holocaust of desire.
yes, I'd like another fries.
leave this to us.
we never knew how to do this right.
we'll continure getting it all wrong.
but all wrong is the
only way we know how to
be.
(I might love -)
if I told you the truth.
would you?
