Storms - my chain of thoughts, this weekend and further past

I will teeth the outskirts of my Monday morning brain. I spent a too much lung smoked weekend, wait patiently though Sunday, starving through Saturday, a beer or three on Friday.

Try and recall what I thought I might put down into words sometime, somewhere. I will cough or sneeze out all the words like a January head cold too close to school's starting day.

I haven't been out of this state in over two years. The last time I was I went to Memphis and watched the Decemberists craft some of my favorites (and far too few of my most favorites) on a stage before my eyes. Somehow all those different little instruments (harpsichord, banjo, mandolin, accordion) moving between fingers, the scent of other bodies rubbing against mine, the dark and the heat, the gentle craving for one more smoke, my lungs freshly accustomed to the taste, all move around inside the hard admiration, the transcendent jealously of her body, the swishsway of her sliding hips moving to pop-lite in the bleeding red stained light of the stage. Be my actor, one more time, cum hard and fast and fake beneath me just like you used to, and tell me it was amazing, your voice crack slightly and distantly. I will hold this all for you until I can no longer, until you are replaced with someone who maybe fill that crescentmoonhole you left in my soul one first of June morning.

It's been two years since I was no longer a child. It's been two years since I was only flesh and love. I remember the night well.

It was 2AM on April 30th; my 19th Birthday. You are now the only girl I've ever been with. There is some kind of stigmata associated with those words. I bear the stain-handed mark of truth. I'll show you my palm for less than a quarter, because I love the shame of association. I'll tell you all my secrets for this reason or that, because the shame on display is the closest I'll really ever come to exhibitionism.

Sometimes I think about your new lover tangled beneath covers. I have only seen him once, so I let the ambiguity twirl around inside my imagination. I wonder how his fingers, his tongue, his dick curves and moves and brush up against you, get you going, get you off.

I'm having problems removing my hopes that you remember me. I know you can't, it's not fair to him for me to even ask you to. It's probably not fair to me to hope you do or pretend you do.

I'll be fine, in the meantime.