(no subject)

[xangelicidex]

piles of books,
dumped (never read, but it doesnt
matter, shes noticed theres very little
matter involved in this one and less
mind, more than anything just
time and
well, whatever it was, she was sure that it didn't
matter) hastily, flopping
clumsily, pages
creased and
smeared.

but it didnt matter.

Pieced of clothing
hurled (lost once, and
found it seems, though funny it is
that they never seemed to have enough
time to
look initially, always busy doing
well, she didn't really want or need to recall, it was all
lost anyway) upon the curiously awkward couch,
looming and strange in the
silence

which was
lost on them, anyway.

Pages of poetry
flung (where once they might have been
cherished, read again and again over long periods of
time, now
they would sit, a
stone in her chest, unloved and unnoiticed and
well, it was better not to think on what
once moved mountains) crammed violently
into crowded drawers,
memories of a
time that
might as well be
erased.

for those
forgetting
what they once might have been.

She closes the drawer,
he closes the door,
but only she
sighs
through the mouth she couldnt bring herself to
open.

heres another one of those crappy things that I write when I'm inspired by something strong. Enjoy it you guys.