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amorous, but out of reach

August 18, 2013

I’m mad for you. I am mad for your words, your fingertips, your sad inclinations and tendency to withdraw.

42 years since that cigarette, that stoop, that light. “I saw a beautiful girl one day…and now here you all are.”

This is the way the world works. Life is long, life is hard.

I’m waiting for her now, her tiny hands growing, clasping and unclasping, someone new to love.

Now that you’re here again, I remember a string of moments I thought I’d forgotten. Your voice on the phone, thick with alcohol and sadness. Singing. Slurring.

“He’s all our broken boys come home.”

“I just want to get away.”


“Writers are always selling somebody out”

It’s true.

And here I am, telling the world your secrets. Your weaknesses. Looking for a point of entry where there is none. None except memories, the past, people who don’t exist anymore. And that’s not playing fair, I know.

A distraction too distracting, and not what I meant to ask the universe for.


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