I want to run my finger across the bridge of your eyebrows then down to the very tip of your nose. But you’ll need to remove your spectacles for me, but don’t worry I’ll where them for you, I’ve been told I look good with them on; that I have a look of class when I’m behind two slices of glass. Besides, I don’t get sick with them, I can actually see sharper, which is why I’ve always suspected I need glasses. My barber confirmed this to me the other day and I tipped her extra for the diagnosis.
Looking at all the quinceañeras arriving in the park, I’m wondering how many color schemes could possibly exist when you consider tints and shades and black and white and greys and metallics. Will I live to see all the variations? On what goods grounds do I stand that I’ve never been forced into wearing a silk turquoise vest? And what would happen if I pushed the birthday girl, posing for her picture at the edge of the pond, straight into the water? It’s pretty damn cold and so it’s appropriate to wonder how long it would be before she could catch hypothermia. I remind myself that once she was out of the water, she would need to take of her pastel dress because it would be soaked with the frigid liquid. That reminds me that there is a skate park right on the other side of the pond.
What’s happening in your brain right now that in ten whole minutes you’ve managed to not stop talking yet only said one thing. And that one thing is how orgasmic nutella tastes to you and I’m looking at you’re euphorically rolled eyeballs and those sucked in lips and feeling guilty because in my head I want to call you stupid. Stupid girl. No! Life is too short to spend that long praising a hazelnut spread! Death could be just outside those doors! See how drastically forward the human minds moves? Three paragraphs in and I’m already on the subject of death. What is this curse on humanity that we are made to spend so much time thinking about death during the short time we are given to live?
Who can escape this wrath?
Does he know his eyes are going to fly off his face some day? There’s something beautiful about they’re smoothed rhombus shape. I want to peel them off like stickers. Then what would you look like?
I’m embarrassed by where I live and I there is this snarling hatred towards myself that stirs from the shame. I am not ashamed, but then I am. I am on the defensive and worked hard as shit to make sure you didn’t see the dog turd some neighbor left in the middle of the hallway. We’re good people. We’re good people. That makes up for everything. Somehow it doesn’t. I’m so apologetic I’ll never call you again.
Your fly is unzipped (Remember this is only what I’m thinking.)
What does “fake it till you make it” mean, anyways? What is she getting at? I’m thinking of orgasms, again. Do people mean improvisation when they say this? Improvisation and “faking it” can’t be the same thing or else it would be called improvisation when I told you I got what you were saying, and Dizzy G would be a phony. Please stop texting while driving me crazy. And put on a different blouse before you tell me the best days of your life are over.
Come closer to me. I know you like biology and I’m trying to think of some good one liners that are better than asking you to “study my anatomy.”
I forgot to do laundry. I forgot to pay the woman I rear ended. I forgot to call her back. I forgot to go the keys?? No, of course not. I forgot the money. I forgot the rain. I forgot the long walk home. I forgot the Turkish delights. I forgot the page number. I forgot to buy a new pair of pants. I forgot my name. I forgot the house. I forgot words.