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I looked in the mirror this afternoon and the man that gazed back looked…

Well, balding since the hair has grown back in. Overweight. Tired.

Some nights I still feel your tentative touch. You were never really affectionate, and I craved the touch.

But Johnny, was it the touch or the hand that you craved? Was it seeing her astride taking her pleasure from you in the darkness, knowing that she’d leave as suddenly as she came but trying to enjoy the moment nonetheless? Or was it the “love” you thought you swore to christ was there?

Gone. All gone. And no one since. Some moments perhaps, fleeting, and empty. Used, and seeing what the word really meant.

Say you don’t mind living in the moment, partaking while the fruit is before you. You’re a fucking liar. You want the fruit and the tree and the sky and the ground and time itself while you’re at it.

Ah! A glimmer flashes forth from the eyes of one that simply exists. The lost one waving at passing caravans. Sitting alone only lonely, hawking your wares but keeping them close close. So much to offer, but who can pay your price?

Give it all for the touch. Oh not some brushing, some tugging idiot.

But for the calm satiated need created in her by your presence. She now has all she needs, and saying it is not just moving air about. Plain as the sun and moon, the air and ground and stars above. Not two, not one. You and she. A nice dreeeaaammm…

Indeed, the ice is melting Johnny. See it in twin rivulets down that old beaten face. Tears of a clown, eh Smokey?

Pretty fucking inconvenient when the clown cries. Who’ll be the fool now?

Well, you’ve had plenty of practice.

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One Comment

  1. I know what it’s like to be that kind of liar.

    “The lost one waving at passing caravans.”

    Love that.


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