Sunday, November 05, 2006


I can hear you falling.
Falling for me, falling in love falling right out of it, slipping. You have no shape no real form. Whatever gravity shapes you, however you shall fall, slipping out of my hands. I am watching you just slip down the drain.

Washing my rejected vessel of affection I feel dirty as you ease over me. Consuming you I can never wipe clean the past tarnish and heartbreak, hard water stains of warm sensations. Dreams of you still float in my stream of consciousness, images rolling down the small of my back. Slipping...

Each time you flood my life with a smooth mixture of passion and pain. Subtle and inescapable one drip at a time, causing yellow rings in my tub of life, mildew stains on my walls of affection rusting away the accessibility to the very core of me.

I see you sneaking into the shadows sliding into the darkness, sipping down the drain. Staring blankly I await every drop with anticipation. Ah, the exhilaration of watching you fall, I flinch when I see you hit and sigh to see you slip away. Every time I watch you in adoration knowing very well your fate is the drain.

Little punk drops instead of a steady stream. Every drop contributing to my lime encrusted view of life, eating away my steel door of resistance, a leaky faucet of dreams. I've resolved to never bathe in your mercurial presence again. I enjoy steamy hot baths. High-water pressured showers of warmth, flowers and attention to wash away the soapy residue of the day. Not little punk drops.

Drowning in thought, I blink breaking my minds surface turning off the faucet, drying my tears.

I found this piece recently in a notebook from two years ago. I can still feel what I felt when I first wrote it. I felt compelled to share.

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