"they say taylor was a good girl never one to be late, complain, express ideas in her brain..."
she stared at the picture of him. the one she stole from his top left desk drawer, tucked in among his papers and other meaningless properties. he showed it to her earlier and as he was downstairs she quickly picked it out and shoved it into her purse. when she got home, it was already bent in the middle, on its way to being ruined because she had a tendency to ruin everything. She wished that maybe sometime everything she touched would not fall apart. She liked the picture because of how he looked in it, like a total stranger. she only possessed tow other pictures of him, one of the two of them taken on a gray sunday morning while they lay in bed. She took it with one hand, so their faces were blurry. In that particular caught moment her face surprises her because she is looking at him with his eyes closed in this innocent, exhilariting fashion. Her face looks like she is a 13 year old girl again fooling around with that no good senior. The other picture is of him sleeping in her dorm bed, bright red covers pulled up to his chin. Yes, she loved this stolen picture. Behind him a foreign sea gray as the steel sky. His shaggy brown hair blown sideways into the wind and he still has the goatee he had when they first kissed. she could still slightly feel the roughness against her cheek. But it was the expression on his face that caused her to grab this particular photo. total peaceful bliss. she has never seen him in that state of mind. when they were together his eyes, a color of sparkling broken glass, seemed almost dead. as if the fresh glass on the sidewalk was now worn down by the waves, two dull yet beautiful pieces of blue seaglass. She already knew what the conversation would be if he found the photo.
"What? isn't this mine?" He would say, confused at the sight of one of his possessions in her house.
"Oh well yeah i took it the other day while i was at your house," she would stutter out, silently cursing at herself because she had left it out in the open on her nightstand or some other obvious place.
"you stole it?" she could hear him say somewhat shrilly.
"NO! I borrowed it. I just really like it," she always takes his words and twists them around.
"Man, well like next time ask okay? you can't just like, steal things from me."
And that would be the end of it. In the past she would have escalated the fight, start the back to back ping pong games of insults. He would tell her she is hypocritical, she fights too much, she bitches all the time, she is chubby, she is not smart, she doesn't know what she is talking about. Then she would fight back, now she wouldn't care. It doesn't take too much to see that this slowly hurts her, digs the knife into her side one syllable at a time. She doesn't think he sees it though because he doesn't stop.
She has got to be careful. She is falling in love with the man in the photo. He doesn't say anything to her, only smiles back. Happy to be where he is at,working towards something in this sad, beautiful life. How strange it is to look at that stranger on that foreign boat in that diplomatic sea. she knows how it feels when he wraps his arms around her and she remembers the warmth of that embrace. she knows the feeling of his lips on her and what he feels like inside her. but she's never met this man on the boat. she picks the photo off of the floor and places it next to the wilting sunset colored flowers he bought her from some internet site. some thought but no feeling, no instinct. sometimes she feels not like his other but only his whore, a girl he drags around for show. because she is quite pretty. a show horse, something he can talk up about to the other southern bastards.
she crawls into bed and turns out the light, her ceiling stars struggle to keep the glow. she is falling in love with the stranger in the picture, not the same man sleeping next to her.
-m.
"What? isn't this mine?" He would say, confused at the sight of one of his possessions in her house.
"Oh well yeah i took it the other day while i was at your house," she would stutter out, silently cursing at herself because she had left it out in the open on her nightstand or some other obvious place.
"you stole it?" she could hear him say somewhat shrilly.
"NO! I borrowed it. I just really like it," she always takes his words and twists them around.
"Man, well like next time ask okay? you can't just like, steal things from me."
And that would be the end of it. In the past she would have escalated the fight, start the back to back ping pong games of insults. He would tell her she is hypocritical, she fights too much, she bitches all the time, she is chubby, she is not smart, she doesn't know what she is talking about. Then she would fight back, now she wouldn't care. It doesn't take too much to see that this slowly hurts her, digs the knife into her side one syllable at a time. She doesn't think he sees it though because he doesn't stop.
She has got to be careful. She is falling in love with the man in the photo. He doesn't say anything to her, only smiles back. Happy to be where he is at,working towards something in this sad, beautiful life. How strange it is to look at that stranger on that foreign boat in that diplomatic sea. she knows how it feels when he wraps his arms around her and she remembers the warmth of that embrace. she knows the feeling of his lips on her and what he feels like inside her. but she's never met this man on the boat. she picks the photo off of the floor and places it next to the wilting sunset colored flowers he bought her from some internet site. some thought but no feeling, no instinct. sometimes she feels not like his other but only his whore, a girl he drags around for show. because she is quite pretty. a show horse, something he can talk up about to the other southern bastards.
she crawls into bed and turns out the light, her ceiling stars struggle to keep the glow. she is falling in love with the stranger in the picture, not the same man sleeping next to her.
-m.