[ I was saving for your memory ]
Now you say you're lonely

passion or an imitation of it



She situated me in the company of the extraordinary just for her amusement, and to take advantage of my congruent search of arms to collapse in.

She was sleeping under pianos, drinking next to cellos, dressing in pale colored underwear, playing with me like a new toy with the chew marks of her ownership.

I knew she longed for a dark room with two beds and an open window. I knew she deprived me of things so that I would learn her discipline.

Six storms after midnight and nine rooms down the hall, she was clumsy a girl stumbling into my pile of magazines. Not much later, her room was my castle. Death to her morals, death to her threads, death to her memories, death to her past, death to her medication, death to her will, death to her diary and the long accounts of her cruelty.

Three sighs into one night and the bed was too small.

Karma and alcohol made her aggressive. She demonstrated her talent, I showcased my weakness. I knew she would leave me crawling for talent. I memorized her eyes, the repetition and confessions.

I bowed for status, holding hands and confronting our barricade of grief. The one condition was not owning an ounce of mercy. We survived on passion or an imitation of it.

Was the sign "Handle with Care" on my chest making her think twice?


 Jose M 
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