(no subject)
it's strange how you can feel one thing one mintue and know that it's good and sane and right, and the next, you feel the exact opposite with just as much conviction.
it's freezing cold in chicago. the kind of cold that is driven by wind and force and hate, ex-boyfriends and burned bridges and regret. the kind of cold that bites your skin as it whips with remarkable speed through thick, callous cotton, fuzzy fur lining and worn sweatshirt. no amount of hot chocolate, red wine, coffee, or comfort food can cure the intolerable need in your appendages for warmth, a pin-point specific warmth for which there is no known anecdote.
you can't discover the remedy until you understand the sickness.
(get up, come on, get down with the sickness)
let's fall in love.
if only lingering song lyrics, corroded by mis.dis.use were the cure-all. sounding only at night while you sleep. in my dreams you're alive and you're crying. is everything soft and sweet with you? could you love her the same if you hadn't read her diary, if she were just a passing head of hair on the busy downtown street on her way to the train, clutching purse against smooth side, head down and determined, would you still want her face on your cheek?
these are things of love and hate.
it's freezing cold in chicago. the kind of cold that is driven by wind and force and hate, ex-boyfriends and burned bridges and regret. the kind of cold that bites your skin as it whips with remarkable speed through thick, callous cotton, fuzzy fur lining and worn sweatshirt. no amount of hot chocolate, red wine, coffee, or comfort food can cure the intolerable need in your appendages for warmth, a pin-point specific warmth for which there is no known anecdote.
you can't discover the remedy until you understand the sickness.
(get up, come on, get down with the sickness)
let's fall in love.
if only lingering song lyrics, corroded by mis.dis.use were the cure-all. sounding only at night while you sleep. in my dreams you're alive and you're crying. is everything soft and sweet with you? could you love her the same if you hadn't read her diary, if she were just a passing head of hair on the busy downtown street on her way to the train, clutching purse against smooth side, head down and determined, would you still want her face on your cheek?
these are things of love and hate.