September 7th, 2002

V. S. yes. I suppose it would be one of those Maxwell.

I want cork floors.
I want white sheets, to cover my the sound of the glass breaking.
Your glass, the one you threw to the floor.
I promised I would not be angry.
I chose to let you pass me by.
Now you have one of my similar age.
You chose to bring her to our place.
Walking her about like some China doll.
Letting her wish for you.
Letting her think that she was something more than just a way to make the other one angry.
You are lucky for the one.
You are lucky for us all.
But you will never know.
You are my broken lover.
Pierced and shaved.
Smoked and glazed.
Look so good on paper.
But I am very into matches.
So I let you burn.
Now your ashes coat my feet.
I can not forget.
I can not wash them clean.
Forever I walk with you under me.

Old love.
New hate.
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