tabita::vakantie
This one had somewhere to go, but don't they all? The failure is mine, of course. I recalled the time you tied me to the bedpost and wrote words across my hips; the ink was so cold and your breath was so warm. I shivered as you blew across the letters, and you smiled--large eyes shadowed by the glare of a muted television. Sometimes I try to picture that smile.
Sometimes when it's too hot, I just sleep in my underwear. If it's colder, I sleep in pajamas. I don't like to feel closed in. I like no pillows. I like very fluffy beds. I sleep on my stomach and sometimes on my side, but never on my back. Now, if I have my boyfriend with me, I kick him out of bed, because I move around a lot. I'm the worst person. I steal blankets.
Het was vaste prik. Elke dag om précies 3 minuten over 4 ging de televisie aan en kwam Dr. Phil ervoor. Grada haar sappige oogjes vulden zich dan met water en de traantjes gleden over haar ruwe huid. Ze was heel emotioneel aangelegd en ze wist dat ze éigenlijk niet naar zulke programma’s moest kijken, maar haar droom was om uiteindelijk die ó zo beroemde Dr. Phil te ontmoeten
~ Grada de grapefruit.
~ Grada de grapefruit.
Nel is a happy snail.
We elves try to stick to the four main food groups: candy, candy canes, candy corns and syrup. -elf-
(two lines, then). I read it over and over, reliving a moment when I bent past you early one morning and grabbed a tie that didn't match; it took you half a cup of coffee to notice, and I didn't believe you once you had. It was a silly argument, but I cherish the silly ones. I think I made it halfway through lunch before I finally broke down and left you a message. "Baby," I said, "baby, I'm sorry. I love you.
I know of a world that is sunk in shame,
Where hearts oft faint and tire;
But I know of a Name, a precious Name,
That can set that world on fire:
Its sound is sweet, its letters flame.
I know of a Name, a precious Name,
'Tis Eva.
Where hearts oft faint and tire;
But I know of a Name, a precious Name,
That can set that world on fire:
Its sound is sweet, its letters flame.
I know of a Name, a precious Name,
'Tis Eva.
with sentiment.
I sometimes think I should have told you, but a torn poem in the middle of a million secrets seems a strange thing to regret.
This is why writers rarely make it far in love; we spend our time having sx with words, remembering moments better as we wrote them than we do as we lived them. We spend our break-ups in tragic sentimentality, inspired to write out of bitterness and neglect, motivated by self-loathing and an unforgiving ego.
This is why writers rarely make it far in love; we spend our time having sx with words, remembering moments better as we wrote them than we do as we lived them. We spend our break-ups in tragic sentimentality, inspired to write out of bitterness and neglect, motivated by self-loathing and an unforgiving ego.
I watch my wife's smug expression as she rearranges her letters. Clack, clack, clack. I hate her. If she wasn't around, I'd be doing something interesting right now. I'd be climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. I'd be starring in the latest Hollywood blockbuster. I'd be sailing the Vendee Globe on a 60-foot clipper called the New Horizons - I don't know, but I'd be doing something.
She plays JINXED, with the J on a double-letter score. 30 points. She's beating me already. Maybe I should kill her.
She plays JINXED, with the J on a double-letter score. 30 points. She's beating me already. Maybe I should kill her.
Dear --,
I began your letter at the stop sign on Third Street and lost it in a traffic jam on Hemming Way; you would've rolled your eyes at the name, so I tried to imagine you sitting beside me. That's what did it, of course--I had a perfectly good sentence and it went right out the window
I began your letter at the stop sign on Third Street and lost it in a traffic jam on Hemming Way; you would've rolled your eyes at the name, so I tried to imagine you sitting beside me. That's what did it, of course--I had a perfectly good sentence and it went right out the window
If only I had a D, then I could play MURDER. That would be a sign. That would be permission.
I start chewing on my U. It's a bad habit, I know. All the letters are frayed. I play WARMER for 22 points, mainly so I can keep chewing on my U.
As I'm picking new letters from the bag, I find myself thinking - the letters will tell me what to do. If they spell out KILL, or STAB, or her name, or anything, I'll do it right now.
I'll finish her off.
I start chewing on my U. It's a bad habit, I know. All the letters are frayed. I play WARMER for 22 points, mainly so I can keep chewing on my U.
As I'm picking new letters from the bag, I find myself thinking - the letters will tell me what to do. If they spell out KILL, or STAB, or her name, or anything, I'll do it right now.
I'll finish her off.
I tell you this, and I tell you plain:
What you have done, you will do again;
You will bite your tongue, careful or not,
Upon the already-bitten spot.
What you have done, you will do again;
You will bite your tongue, careful or not,
Upon the already-bitten spot.
See there--I was trying to redeem myself by writing a poem, but apologetic prose doesn't like to share. I had grand illusions--something about a word on a breeze (how cliché) wandering past a car full of screaming children and a businesswoman on her phone.
It's difficult out of context, but every now and then I convince myself of the memory, and the effort's almost worth it.
You wrote a poem once about my letters--not these letters (well, maybe these letters), the individual letters in individual words. There was a line
This D implies the bend in your shoulders when you're pouring your coffee, selecting a tie
You wrote a poem once about my letters--not these letters (well, maybe these letters), the individual letters in individual words. There was a line
This D implies the bend in your shoulders when you're pouring your coffee, selecting a tie
I have figured for you the distance between the horns of a dilemma, night and day, and A and Z. I have computed how far is Up, how long it takes to get Away, and what becomes of Gone. I have discovered the length of the sea serpent, the price of priceless, and the square of the hippopotamus. I know where you are when you are at Sixes and Sevens, how much Is you have to have to make an Are, and how many birds you can catch with the salt in the ocean -l87,796,l32, if it would interest you.
It's a hot day and I hate my wife.
We're playing Scrabble. That's how bad it is. I'm 42 years old, it's a blistering hot Sunday afternoon and all I can think of to do with my life is to play Scrabble.
I should be out, doing exercise, spending money, meeting people. I don't think I've spoken to anyone except my wife since Thursday morning. On Thursday morning I spoke to the milkman.
My letters are crap.
We're playing Scrabble. That's how bad it is. I'm 42 years old, it's a blistering hot Sunday afternoon and all I can think of to do with my life is to play Scrabble.
I should be out, doing exercise, spending money, meeting people. I don't think I've spoken to anyone except my wife since Thursday morning. On Thursday morning I spoke to the milkman.
My letters are crap.
You and I--we wrote while we could, left in despair when the words ran out and replaced themselves with a comfortable silence.
We never worked well in comfort. Writers live better as they suffer.
Even so,
I wish you were here.
We never worked well in comfort. Writers live better as they suffer.
Even so,
I wish you were here.
There were soccer stories, a brief pause for some striking observation, and then a tremendous ending in a field, or a grave, or your lips. (Probably your lips.) It was another perfect poem lived and never written. Speaking of
I've written you letters
on scraps of paper--
napkins, Sears receipts;
of a manila folder,
and several times now
in the margins
of our favorite books.
I've written you letters
on scraps of paper--
napkins, Sears receipts;
of a manila folder,
and several times now
in the margins
of our favorite books.
You were right about the tie." I never wore that tie again--not even with the right shirt--but I still have it. I blush when I pass it on the rack.
But your poem--the one about the letters--I had it taped to my desk, to my journal--it's been in six different suitcases and kept pages in countless books; twice now I've ripped it up only to tape it back together, desperately, in place of tears. You'll never know, though--how close I keep your words (even the poor ones).
But your poem--the one about the letters--I had it taped to my desk, to my journal--it's been in six different suitcases and kept pages in countless books; twice now I've ripped it up only to tape it back together, desperately, in place of tears. You'll never know, though--how close I keep your words (even the poor ones).
MIJN GASTENBOEK (> 1000) 
tabita::vakantie
Habbo sinds:
3-sep-2005
What's shakin', bacon?
