Thursday, January 21, 2010
I've always liked crooked teeth
It is the hour of silence. The night is a velvet hoodie, but there's also the premonition of light. That it will come again, and that it won't be too long.
Love is just a wish. It only exists in my head (but the touch still pricks my skin from when I was a believer). I often mock it, but when I dare to be honest, I want it; the romantic kind, the one that saves and damns.
Monica's teeth looked like a wind-worn fence. I've always liked crooked teeth. Her breath on my face was faintly perfume-y. And she could cause permanent damage to my inner organs with her thighs.
Right now I think that I'll always remember the moonlit walk along the beach. When we escaped, drove north after she fought with her husband, the editor, said she was leaving him.
But soon I'll think, what the hell was I thinking.
In the meantime, daddy is here, and he's having loud sex with this hippie-chick (not much older than me) that we met at a brunch spot in Topanga Canyon.
Image by simen johan