Monday, May 16, 2005

Free Agent

He's gone for the summer. My computer's on the up and up. The sun's shining. The birds are a-chirpin'. Truckers are cursing up a storm.

Life: it's a good thing.


"And don't be afraid," I said with my face buried in his side, "to write to loose ends."

We swayed aimlessly around the foyer as he tied up the rest. I wanted so bad to feel his tongue in me when he untangled himself from well-wishers to reach me -- seize me -- before I quietly slipped out the door. Yet, I didn't; I was repulsed. He drained every last ounce of strength from me and thus, I had no more left to give.

It wouldn't surprise me if I found an Urban Outfitters's T-shirt that read: "I went to Tulsa and all I got was this lousy friend-boy whom I fooled around with and grew too attached to, though he never used me for sex which gives me no legitimate reason to hate the bastard even though he had a girlfriend, played my emotions like an organ grinder and freeloaded like a campus whore -- but I enjoyed every minute of my time with him."

If that's not a case for masochism, I don't know what is. And let me be heartbreakingly honest with myself. We didn't make love because he didn't love me. Words were always in the way.


Took my scarf with him. That's my Roman Holiday Hepburn scarf. But I snagged a sweet set of six wooden hangers in return.


Wanted: Loud-mouthed, teeth-sucking, big-bootied Bonita last seen heading to church wearing rubber loaves on her feet and a wristband over her ass (because a skirt, it ain't.)

Kobe Bryant called. He wants ... yo' number.


Went shopping for books and plunked down the pesos for Laura Penny's "Your Call is Important to Us: The Truth About Bullshit" and Marilyn Yalom's "History of the Wife".

And a Spanish dictionary.

My mind needs a good scrubbing from a winter's worth of sludge.

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