I made my sorries and they were as sincere as possible.
But this weekend helped to remind me how poetic tangled legs could be. I'm mostly sure that it didn't matter to whom those body parts belonged, but I can't help but appreciate the tenderness of a stroked scar. The isatiable urge that surprises even me, well I'm pretty sure it has been quelled before it lays dormant for a deep winter. Or is it like a fiery furnace, just getting heated up? For everyone's sake I hope it's the former.
Some sorries are still in order, but I just can't manage the words or the sincerity.
This semester one of my college textbooks told me this: Irony is the subtlest manifestation of story pleasure. It's so true.
I have so much to do this week and all I want to do is sleep and dream.
I don't know what he's trying to do or what he wants, whatever it is I'll take it.
As long as it's not heartburn. I don't have the time nor the health insurance for that ...
My momma tells me not to get my hopes up about anyone. Ever.