... when I step so soft against her.
It's fallen right back into where it was before. Except that I'm not using my imagination when I see the duct tape. Only to a slight degree.
I don't see what you're thinking, though I can imagine. I won't hear it either, because you won't say.
Steer clear the conversation from sex, and the desires that creep in. You can type about my tongue, and I'll hear you say, "Look at that face."
You can't get rid of the song, I can't get rid of it either, because it's true. Every word. I'll remember putting it on Friday night, and smoking at the kitchen table, everything was blue. It was the first thing I heard after I hit the doors of my car, after I stopped crying long enough to turn the key in the ignition.
I'm waiting to see the results of your experiment. I'm waiting for the write up, and scientific proof. That you can't have both. Show me you can't have everything, make it clear that I cannot do what I say I can. Tell me that I can't make it happen in a someday, that one word wouldn't start the dominos falling. Make me believe that the theories I've built my life upon are false, that I need to construct new ones to justify all of this.
I'd like to see the evidence that convicts me to a life of missed chances and near collisions. This doesn't feel like a cell.
I'm starting happy back up, to the same soundtrack. It works on so many levels.
. . .
Good Night.