I missed you this weekend, figment of my imagination. I wish I could wipe the spit from your face, pick you up and carry you home.
I miss my hands in the raw and open wounds of others. I used to think I could get in there and clean, dress and heal those wounds but I traded that in for a desk when it got to be too much. Sometimes I want it all back.
And you. I barely missed you at all. I had wheels. I could fly. I wasn’t pinned down by anyone. I was me and me alone, even if it was for just one night.
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to describe or represent something fleeting or intangible, in a lasting medium
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7 comments:
i hardly believe you've traded it in for a desk. it's the junk life throws at us: desks, spitballs (ha), curveballs, etc. we take them as they come, but some of us don't really compromise what's inside--no matter what we roll on the surface.
every time i see an ambulance drive by, i get that same feeling of missing my hands in the wounds of other people. i'm glad i recognized when it was time to trade in for the desk.
Nathaniel, sometimes you are a fresh breeze in a stale room.
Brando: it has gotta be the same stuff that draws people into that business that makes it hard to stay and yet keeps pulling you back, don't you think?
yes but sometimes i'm a stale breeze in a fresh room.
the Universe is all balanced out like that.
I believe that's probably the case - on both counts.
aX Brandon to send you the proper link to his web log-One Child. Yours is incomplete.
Brandon, Ce mai faci batrine? Scrie-mi si mie un e-mail cind mai ai timp, you know, in between tequila shots.
Yeah Brando, me too.
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