Somehow in our division, we multiplied the idea that we should be together. Some kind of forever type shit, has hit us in the back of the head. Suddenly the relationship is not dead. I can’t help but tread lightly on this new found calm; because when we speak it’s usually not Psalms coming out of mouths. Half the time I don’t know what it’s about but I know I wouldn’t want kids to hear it.
It’s a queer set of circumstances that brought us to this apartment. This small compartment at the top of the stairs... where we keep our wares and our inner most thoughts from the outside world. Where we balance the life and death of love, just a breath above whether or I did the God Damned dishes. I wish your wishes had something to do with me and who you wanted me to be. I wish they tapped into my personality...instead of just the fact that I have hands.
What I do understand is harmony. Which is hard to feel when the place is dirty or apparently when you are a woman over thirty. I know that’s unkind but I can’t wrap my mind around why you still want me. Almost everything you launch at me calls me pathetic...and yet it doesn’t remove your hands from ass. It doesn’t allow me to pass without a quick kiss to your lips and a subtle harassment of my sensibilities.
This is fucked up to the third degree and yet my heart doesn’t want to be free. It keeps telling my head to shut the hell up and just let it be. There’s a war without and a war within me. I wish I could just throw up my fingers and mean peace. I wish your madness would just cease. I wish you'd grab me by my neck and ravish me. I wish you’d throw me to the floor and show me what these hands are really for. I wish you’d lock the door so neither of us could flee. Until the sun comes up and the birds start singing from the surrounding trees. Shit. See. My heart doesn’t want to be free.
