I Can Never Finish What I Sta

Rose is beautiful, but she’s beautiful.

Short, just about 5’1 or 5’2 I think. I look enormous by her and I’m only 5’10, with very black and curly hair and glasses. Specifically those suddenly hipster then suddenly cool then suddenly so damn mainstream black thick rimmed glasses. Always wearing v-necks that are a little too deep even though she doesn’t have much breast to be showing off. I  find it funny she seems to flaunt them around so proudly like they’re a selling point. There’s something about her personality that doesn’t match her looks. Women like her tend to have a sense of entitlement because of their looks, where she strikes as being either painfully oblivious to her attractive face or only marginally willing to admit it. 

Rose is beautiful, but she’s beautiful.

Tonight is a tough night contemplating the arch of her spine and the angle of her smile. She’s tempting, an I Know I Probably Shouldn’t, Well Maybe Just One. A dainty, soft, small desire. But soon I’ll forget her wan face when she sips Shirley Temples and her sienna peel so luminous against the moon. Soon another will take her place, on the subway batting lashes or on a line sucking teeth at people taking too long at the kiosk. We make eyes, or we don’t, I might be wrapped in her diaries, or romancing the creases of her heart in my mind, but whether it’s flesh or fantasy in the morning Rose’s touch is nothing but an afterthought- deferred and destitute. Lust to ash, a withered ecstasy. I can’t help but wonder-

Where does a feeling go to die?

  • 11 May 2013
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