Everything I write goes nowhere.
The door of her bedroom opens, and in the frame, like in a museum of modern love stories, is a modern Romeo, here in this lifetime however, his name is (His). In the room, admiring the framed metaphor, is his Juliet, (Her). He sees her, he breathes her in, but he’s still standing in the doorway. He says to her, “Knock, knock.” She responds, after a pause to bite her lower lip to keep it from spreading to it’s full, gorgeous wideness, “Who’s there?” He smiles, but contains it as well, and says, “The interrupting elephant.” As his mouth moves, so too do his feet, with a coolness reserved for movie stars, and someone with a plan. She stands, gazes stereotypically but just right, clear through him, finding him, and begins to respond, “The interrupting-“ But her mouth can not utter anything else coherent except for the soft moan of satisfaction as his lips stop hers from speaking, and they kiss.
Well that was just beautiful. I could spends pages, filling books as well as the heads absorbing their content with so much more of that sort of majestic, romantic wonderfulness. The perfection of impossibilities, the absolute desired events. But this is one of those stories that contains the line, “this is one of those stories.” I am not a particularly scorned lover. Rather, I score those I love, or at least care for. Poor, typical, defense mechanism me. The inexplicable textbook case.
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Man, this is fuckin' something. I've been staring at the blank space for a long time now. A myriad of exactitudes have been racing from my mind to my fingertips, but I'm just not drunk enough to act on it. God dammit.
Well that was just beautiful. I could spends pages, filling books as well as the heads absorbing their content with so much more of that sort of majestic, romantic wonderfulness. The perfection of impossibilities, the absolute desired events. But this is one of those stories that contains the line, “this is one of those stories.” I am not a particularly scorned lover. Rather, I score those I love, or at least care for. Poor, typical, defense mechanism me. The inexplicable textbook case.
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Man, this is fuckin' something. I've been staring at the blank space for a long time now. A myriad of exactitudes have been racing from my mind to my fingertips, but I'm just not drunk enough to act on it. God dammit.