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19 November 2007 @ 04:30 am
Personally, what I find to be my best writing. Ever.  
In the day-to-day thrills of here, and now, and the strained 'Hello? How are you? I miss you?' on an answering machine, her fingers find their way to the bridge of her nose; a pinch to stave off A Headache more and more often, and it's incomplete thoughts that she writes down on the strips of paper she then folds into tiny paper stars. More and more frequently she has to stop, and take a pill or three, and then remember to breathe, because the pain ripples through her again and again and a triptan just doesn't give forgiveness like it used to. She writes about it on the backs of napkins and wrappers and other trash that could symbolize her life, if she were trying to be cliche; but no one cares, not even her, and then she throws them away and maybe someday someone will find those writings, and be surprised that so much feeling can mean so little in the world. She listens to music, coming from his fingers and coming from his lips and coming from his heart, and she knows that this is wrong wrong wrong but he doesn't care, or at least acts like he doesn't care, and so then she doesn't care, or at least acts like she doesn't cry at night wishing she drank less and he smoked less and they fucked less; none of it is an anagram for placebo like she Needs It To Be. Her eyes search for him when the lights are on, and his hands search for her when the lights are off, and this is just where they were when they decided that it couldn't go on, start the story over, recast the roles and watch the puppets dance in a detached, third-person way, only not. The headaches make this Not Alright and the words make this Heartbreaking and the promises that there are no such things as promises make this What She Needs. Perhaps soon she'll feel in her head what she's been missing all along.