Off The Top Of My Head
Slowly, slowly, I am learning how to define myself. To shape my Saturday around the structure of a novel, or a single drink in my own home with an old friend. To be simply content, and stop wondering how time would pass on an alternate page, with an ideal lover, seeing each instance through two pairs of eyes. (It would be the same, save the watching with someone to whom I may one day say goodbye.) To explore that cave of submerged passions, of chocolate and cream and dripping red meat, and understand finally why I like my fish cooked, with salad greens. To surface from the depths to the other side, happy with the lappings of shallow waves. To bathe in sunlight, to fall asleep without any blame.
You would seduce me with cities like Tokyo and Taipei, kiss me in the lift as it opens onto a startled face, whisper how simple you are to understand. "But what is it you want?" you almost say.
Nothing. Everything. It doesn't matter. I cannot be bought. I no longer have the apetite for the games we play.
You would seduce me with cities like Tokyo and Taipei, kiss me in the lift as it opens onto a startled face, whisper how simple you are to understand. "But what is it you want?" you almost say.
Nothing. Everything. It doesn't matter. I cannot be bought. I no longer have the apetite for the games we play.