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divorced's Journal

History

26th June 2002

10:40am: take me in your arms just one more time.
I do not think they make the people to go with the love songs. Do you suppose Robert Smith is really as romantic as he sounds in his songs. The songs that are life, air, they are what you should live for. Magic. I wonder, I wonder if all this romantic sound is really just lustful loneliness. I wonder if Frank is anything like the music he loves. I like him, I do not know him, but I like him. I find him attractive, sure this is good, but I also find him incredibly irresistible. He is sweet, trouble, he loves them. I have never found that, the true lover of the cure. I sound really into it, but it is the music to my life. I love it, I love every song the fell from his lips. They are the perfect band, all good music, no argh. I love them, if you do, whoever you are, find me.
11:07am: the is a hole below the little toe
first cut I made for you.
second one I cut right back through.
this salty red ocean yearns for you.
take me now, take me home with you.
I can be the one you lay down next to.

this is the only place I will lay down my face.
11:32am: the breasts
fill my heart with shamefulness for the way we are. i tried to look at you to read my thoughts upon your face. to gaze so deep into you're eyes so beautiful and strange...i hate these people staring make them go away from here...this is why i hate you.

i do, i hate you. i hate it. i hate you. i hate the fact that i am not capitalizing my i's. argh.
11:52am: bread wanting boy
he stole the kiss that was meant for you.
he.
he kissed me.
he kissed my neck.
he kissed my tummy.
he said he would kiss my feet.
he touched my nose.
he wanted to read to me.
he knew camus.
his room was a bunch of beds and records.
he spoke french, but wrote to me in spanish so I could play along.
he is the only one I could lay down next to.
he drove with big glasses.
he listened to french lessons on tape, he was fluent.
he listened to my tape.
he wrote na uh and uh huh.
he smiles.
he laughs.
he jumps.
he works in a shirt, in a taverna.
he eats indian food.
he has "party pants".
he is tall.
he let's me have him.
he wants me.
he is light enough to carry.
he goes barefoot.
he wears big boots.
he eats salad with half no dressing just for me.
he writes me in codes.
he always knows what I am trying to say.
he calls me as Evan.
he leaves just a number.
he found her breasts daunting.
he liked me.
he wanted to kiss me in Bose.
he did not.
he said "you would make a wicked stuardist" to the woman in Bose.
he is the only one I have ever kissed.
he did not do it properly.
he is across oceans.
he could never be with me.
he was born too soon.
he knows me.
he likes me.
I miss him.
I want to die.
I will not.
I can not wait till he comes back.
I do not want him to come back.
I can not wait for two more years.
I wonder if we would be then.
I wonder if I would want that.
I was happy with him.
I was happy then.
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