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06-20-2011, 07:00 AM
I guess I should have seen it coming. My father always told me if something's too good to be true, then it is. Maybe it was. It was for me. But I don't think we saw eye to eye in that respect, or at least didn't have enough respect for what we had, so I think that, respectfully, we need to talk. But I'll respect your choices and if you can't take the pain you're inflicting then fine, I'll drop it, go back to my plans and could-have-beens just like I always do, I'm tougher than you think but only because you made me so. Destroying me with the intention of building me up again in a way more pleasing to you seems to have failed because it seems like there's more than just a little Frankenstein going on here. We can't always put down the monsters we make, but it looks like you can. I'm impressed.

Life through the amber overlay of the bottom of a glass of whiskey seems quieter and softer, the fuzz in my bones and in my head cushioning the blows of cold tongues and hard hearts that even the most fiery of speeches can't melt. Mr. Jack Daniels is sitting atop his pile of bones like a Southern vulture, beckoning with a seductive claw. Your caterpillar aspirations and fear of aliens made me smile once, and they're making me smile now, such is the curse of memory. Too many silver memories just out of reach. I wish I believed in a God. Then I could tear down the gates of His heaven and depose him from his throne, if only to get a straight fucking answer.

There's so much more I need to say. I'm a wordsmith. I craft words. Apart from that thing you like that I do with my tongue that I doubt I'll ever need to do again, and making you smile when you're down, and getting you to sleep even on the darkest and bleakest nights, it's my only skill. Now it's my only skill. In my heart, head and bed, never have I been more evenly and perfectly matched. Fuzzy blood cells and adult toys. Amazing how a MS Paint drawing of a monkey could always make me smile. These things are immaterial now I guess, if I can still guess, because guessing's only ever led me astray and if I guess less maybe we wouldn't be in this - this mess. And you always told me I couldn't write poetry.

Here's to us, my love. Even if you were sick of my jokes, my troubles, I swore never to mention Soviet Russia again, even when I wore the hat, and I meant it, I promise. Asymmetry is beauty, and I see it in your eyes still. Mine hold no secrets to you any more. Every second I spent in your presence is worth a lifetime to me. There's so much more I need to say. So much more. Talk to me again. Life's less funny without my Morphine hit.

Signed, forever yours,
Mr. Moose.

06-20-2011, 12:40 PM
It has that vibe of sickening happy sad to it. When I say sickening, it is sickening. Love is gut wrenching. It's like dying in reverse. It's worse than, in a metaphorical sense, being severed in half by a train. But this is very honest, and meloncholy. It's drenched with morose recallings of intimate memories, yet seering with a rough, unedited sense of despair. Keep it the way it is.