Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Let me count the ways…
You’re my ice-cream bar. You’re my gypsy dream visitor. You are my inverted control: the flow. I feel guilty liking you as much as I do—genuinely guilty. Why? Fuck if I know. Probably because I listen to people more than I should; but then again, it’s hard to tell when people are smart or wise until I’ve decided whether or not I disagree with them.
You are a sanction. You’ve got more confusing light switches than the others, yet you’ve “inspired” me less. You have the appeasing touch, the calming presence, the welcoming silence. I like you.
You’re kind of special. I’ve never spoken ill of you, just honestly, and that seems to be enough. Would I be happier somewhere else? Perhaps. Am I happy here? Yes.
I’m afraid of what I might do with you…

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