Something from the archives…

I drove past your house today, not out of any deliberate thought or intent or any need to just see if, by chance, you were out, standing in your front yard. It was just the course of the day, the drive, the places I had to go or see or run from. These random sighs as they pass, the time in the car when you know you’re connected, finding ten minutes to spend so that I have a memory of us to cling to. I know that our fabricated relationship has more to do with lust and thought than any real connection. Still, I cannot help but wonder why it is that despite those leaning in, perfectly quiet, perfectly still seconds always end with you walking away.

Someone I know only online creates the most amazing photographic images. I am in love with this persona, knowing full well this is not anything or anyone. Yet really, thinking one knows anyone beyond the things they create in their minds is where the lie really is. I do it everyday. I look at you flirting with the frame, and you know that every time you scrunch up your face I think of myself in that room, smelling of age and time, slipping up from the floor with a Johnny Cash record from the early 60’s vibrating in the corner. I am forcing my way to your lips and tasting the imperfections of your teeth, the slightly dried out whiskey taste on your tongue, the breaking.

Then I feel the heat and sweat on your back from the drive over, letting my fingers linger perhaps too long and revealing my intent. You are casual as ever, still I demand that every stare be followed by a flash of your smile. When she waved at me from across the fountain, crashing through every carefully constructed illusion I had spent the last year and a half creating, forcing me to remain focused and staring, as if past her there on the cement, dark glasses always and ever between us, I decided to hate her just as much as I pseudo loved her; my mistress of persecution, my deceitful lover, my absence of truth.


About fenster

There are some who call me, Tim?

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