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design | host random writings... practicing diction. weekends were made for the simple things. thrift store finds. listening to the who and chilling with nobody but your beta fish until odd hours of the night. cutting up said thrift store finds because what do you care, you only paid three dollars and this way's more interesting. lord of the rings marathons, fellowship of the ring to the two towers to return of the king, only stopping to pee, loving every second because samwise is so brave and the whole family's watching together. making sticky sweet orgasm inducing chocolate cake just because there's cocoa in the cubbord. burning american idiot for your mom because she's just so cool. traipsing the football stands with your gay as can be homecoming date to be with vauge thoughts of being semi civil to a whiny ex boyfriend. weekends are supposed to be nice little minivacations from the hard hacking biting get up and go weekday world. but the weekend nights are always hard when the lights are turned out. if you don't go right to sleep you'll be up all night and someone's face keeps popping into your head- a face you havn't really put down for weeks at a time... it's not love... it's just a gentle like. you take love and you take away the 'L' and the 'v' and the 'e' and there's just a soft little 'o' as you think about all of the little things added up in a jar to make one big sweet trail of memories over a few years, looks passed in class, inside jokes stretching the lines on your mouth so it hurts but you're still laughing. soft touches and rare flickers of genuine care in soft eyes across a loud crowded room. the tart tang of the memories is enough to rekindle that little fire of hope you thought was extinguished. that little fire that provokes you to grope for a pen in the dark fuzzy twos and threes and fours of the morning to write down a fragment of a poem that will have dissolved by morning and all you'll have left is the prospect of cinnamon rolls. the acidic sweetness of the memories is tinged with a bitterness of what could have been- of what might but probably won't be. there's a longing to be held and a desire for someone to taste your tears and be tasted in a soft and chivelrous embrace where the shaking of your shoulders is double the beating of his heart. then your eyes flick open and it's two thirty and you're all alone except for the dog and your fish and the moon is streaming in reminding you what time it is and where you are. sunday always draws to a close to rapidly, and all of the sudden you're transplanted into the hustle and bustle of podunk high and everyone seems to get their happy ending right in the middle of the story. |