If you don't care
I don't care
we don't belong together
cause
we don't belong anywhere.
If you're not sure
Then i'm not sure
what all these tears are falling for.
let's decide not to care anymore.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Monday, May 19, 2008
Saturday, May 10, 2008
the travel song
san francisco love. the walls hand-painted by someone who was inspired by the vibrancy of the city, someone who believed that love existed by the bay. too many poets sang their love stories here for it to be untrue. but it was uncommonly cold for september when we arrived. we hadn't even packed warm clothing. people were changing; we just didn't know those people were us. we all felt something happening to the things that once defined us.
we sat at a table munching on edamame and as she got drunk i knew she wondered how we were so happy. i hated her false assumptions. i knew she loved her but she was done because she wanted to grow, she wanted nothing with her and everything with a world she didn't understand. she begged us to stay. she could no longer stand to be alone with the woman she loved for the past 6 years. guilt. because her forever ended.
i saw her walk ahead as he made promises of forever in between unfamiliar kisses. he wanted her but his forever didn't start today...maybe tomorrow. tomorrow he would laugh about his promises. she desperately tried pulling out the familiar, but the man she loved for past 5 years died in a comfortless city. i saw his eyes linger on her face as she playfully whined, and quickly look away. fear. because he no longer knew himself.
i sat crying in the bathroom, for nothing that he said, for nothing that he did. i composed myself, straightened the ring on my shaking left hand, walked into the room, and he smiled. he told me i was beautiful... he did so everyday with as much affinity as the first time he said it. i touched the stubble on his face. i didn't speak but he held me tight, my eyes said more than i ever could. he buried his face in my neck and sighed. love. too passionate for our own good. the only love he ever felt. one he was willing to give up even if it meant i would never feel the way i did for the first two years of our relationship. hanging on his hope that someone else would see me in the same light.
san francisco love. we sat in the bookstore where all the poets went. all the poets who read their lives to strangers. we memorized their poems because they were our poems. love lived in their books, in their stories. their books were on shelves for people like us to read. we live on your shelves, in your closed books, san francisco.
****
we sat at a table munching on edamame and as she got drunk i knew she wondered how we were so happy. i hated her false assumptions. i knew she loved her but she was done because she wanted to grow, she wanted nothing with her and everything with a world she didn't understand. she begged us to stay. she could no longer stand to be alone with the woman she loved for the past 6 years. guilt. because her forever ended.
i saw her walk ahead as he made promises of forever in between unfamiliar kisses. he wanted her but his forever didn't start today...maybe tomorrow. tomorrow he would laugh about his promises. she desperately tried pulling out the familiar, but the man she loved for past 5 years died in a comfortless city. i saw his eyes linger on her face as she playfully whined, and quickly look away. fear. because he no longer knew himself.
i sat crying in the bathroom, for nothing that he said, for nothing that he did. i composed myself, straightened the ring on my shaking left hand, walked into the room, and he smiled. he told me i was beautiful... he did so everyday with as much affinity as the first time he said it. i touched the stubble on his face. i didn't speak but he held me tight, my eyes said more than i ever could. he buried his face in my neck and sighed. love. too passionate for our own good. the only love he ever felt. one he was willing to give up even if it meant i would never feel the way i did for the first two years of our relationship. hanging on his hope that someone else would see me in the same light.
san francisco love. we sat in the bookstore where all the poets went. all the poets who read their lives to strangers. we memorized their poems because they were our poems. love lived in their books, in their stories. their books were on shelves for people like us to read. we live on your shelves, in your closed books, san francisco.
****
Thursday, May 1, 2008
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