|
By j. Knipp Date: 2007 Feb 21 Comment on this Work [[2007.02.21.03.16.6641]] |
|
I lit a candle. A red one, red being the right color. She didn’t seem to mind. And to me that was all wrong. I said so… I said I was too much of a wuss for her. I wrote her a poem anyways. Not because it came to me like electric divinity, but because I wanted to lie to myself some more. And the lie was one of forced identity (and the question is: hers? Or Mine?). The problem with trying to catch nostalgia is that I don’t make the right kind of net for it, and I am pretty sure they don’t sell it either. You can’t fool people in these matters. You think you are slick like one of those Wood Moths on a tree trunk— subtle about your despair, hiding your misgivings. Hiding them because you want it to work, you want to recapture it, recreate it. You want it to be her. But it isn’t. And you know it, and some how they(the proxy) figured out the scheme too. And the whole thing spoils like a carton of milk— when your roommate thought it was your milk and you thought it was your roommate’s… |