*Son Sunday’s Sun Never Shone On Me*
I’m not one to forget too easily. Not the things I care to hoard anyway – in all else I manage to exercise selective memory as easily as the next person.
To the untrained eye, my fidgeting and my restlessness seems evidence enough of everything from supreme boredom to rudeness to absolute indifference. Compounding this is my natural talent of possessing the range of facial expressions as varied and diverse as (1) drunk (2) drugged (3) drunk AND drugged; always pensive, as if lost in thought.
You’d never suspect me of attentiveness of any sort. Indeed you didn’t – until much later.
But I never miss a thing.
*You’re Ha Ha High Babe Can’t Keep It On The Ground*
I never miss a thing.
Every word, every nuance, each indecipherable mumble as you turn over to steal a kiss.
Every argument you stopped in mid air in reaching for me, cautious about proceeding, remembering my _amazing memory_.
Everything you ever left unsaid and hanging at the edge of your tongue, withholding for fear. I’ve caught them all.
Last year’s lies and dirty laundry, even the fresh pauses when you’d vacillated between newfound tenderness and your classic brutality. I’ve caught them all. In video-like accuracy, every frame, each audio stream – all preserved, lovingly or not. I’d also smirked quietly in allowing you to continue expounding theorem on leverage and disequilibrium and how the ease of departure purportedly spells out age-induced maturity, knowing this to be characteristic. Knowing also that my characteristic silence was not so much characteristic ignorance or indifference but characteristic acquiescence.
I’m a hoarder, compulsively stuffing our words, moments, even smells and textures, into our collective cache. This is where my problem begins.
*I’m On A Wire To See Your Star Shine*
Why this may be exceptional, extraordinary, or even extra-sensory, is quite beyond me. Yet it is, because.
Walking into smoky lifts detecting familiar scents, tortured for forty five seconds by the whiff of _wild fuchsia_ on the strange woman with me. Knowing there to be no more forty five second stolen kisses in the descent from tenth floor to first where your headscarved neighbour and her five children would have caught us had reflexes not been as agile (or paranoiac..).
Coffee and then victim again to second hand smoke in a familiar stairwell – in a cubicle in the fluorescent light – I repeat the motions seeking gratification enough to purge you from my system.
Yet never quite as maddeningly, never again as an idiot teenager, caught breathless between lust and what would eventually manifest as some strain of a modern, forbidden love. Always unfamiliar women on strange beds to familiar tunes, always shutting my eyes and thinking of you.
*And If There Was A Sequel , Would You Love Me Like An Equal?*
The series of questions I want answered too, all neatly categorised under a deceptively simple title, “Is It Wicked Not To Care?”
There aren’t many possibilities.
“Would you love me like an equal?”
“Would you love me ’til I’m dead?”
But the song finally settles on — “or is there.. someone else instead..?” Thus ending her song.
I don’t have the luxury of ending a tune on as abrupt a note because the movie plays on in my head, always. I don’t have the luxury of offering you such extremes either; or even the luxury of offering you a choice at all.
*Back To Circumstances, Pragmatism, The Rest Of Our Lives*
To being enigmas offering sordid updates of the latest conquests.
To trying to do something about my _amazing memory_, especially the bit about “doubt that baby, not that easy, not after all this..”. Wondering if perhaps I live in a parallel universe where I make up these random things inside the movies in my head. Then I remember You’re Ha Ha High Babe Can’t Keep It On The Ground, because it was _easier to pretend_ you were drunk. Ultimately.
Between a rock and a hard place.. between now and later. (Later: “Thanks babe you’re my rock.” “I’m also your hard place.”)
*Six Barrel Shotgun/Exit Music For A Soap*
*forty five* seconds of stolen kisses, multiplied x no. of times
*two weeks* of initiation rites, multiplied by x amount of mind games
*x* months of being busier being enigmas, silence is not absence but.. (fill in blanks, you know the rest)
*two months* of breaking new ground, subtracting lies deception manipulation for a change
*three years*, a history of our pain
(charted out in six hundred eighty four kilobytes of text even more spam two folders as pictorial accounts of happier times missing forty five second stolen kisses when traversing the lengths of my island in the name of love cost only fourteen dollars eighty cents, one way
and my thumb still twitches to the letter L on my keypad because _unlike the rest of my body it has yet to learn you are no longer a phone call or one hundred and sixty letters away_ but… fill in blanks, you know the rest..)
possibly related
You’ve Got It All Wrong /
Nabeh /
Singaporeans for Procreating on Saturdays /
The Fourth Woman /
Roundtable /
This entry was posted in glbt. Bookmark the
permalink. Both comments and trackbacks are currently closed.
Exit Music For A Soap
*Son Sunday’s Sun Never Shone On Me*
I’m not one to forget too easily. Not the things I care to hoard anyway – in all else I manage to exercise selective memory as easily as the next person.
To the untrained eye, my fidgeting and my restlessness seems evidence enough of everything from supreme boredom to rudeness to absolute indifference. Compounding this is my natural talent of possessing the range of facial expressions as varied and diverse as (1) drunk (2) drugged (3) drunk AND drugged; always pensive, as if lost in thought.
You’d never suspect me of attentiveness of any sort. Indeed you didn’t – until much later.
But I never miss a thing.
*You’re Ha Ha High Babe Can’t Keep It On The Ground*
I never miss a thing.
Every word, every nuance, each indecipherable mumble as you turn over to steal a kiss.
Every argument you stopped in mid air in reaching for me, cautious about proceeding, remembering my _amazing memory_.
Everything you ever left unsaid and hanging at the edge of your tongue, withholding for fear. I’ve caught them all.
Last year’s lies and dirty laundry, even the fresh pauses when you’d vacillated between newfound tenderness and your classic brutality. I’ve caught them all. In video-like accuracy, every frame, each audio stream – all preserved, lovingly or not. I’d also smirked quietly in allowing you to continue expounding theorem on leverage and disequilibrium and how the ease of departure purportedly spells out age-induced maturity, knowing this to be characteristic. Knowing also that my characteristic silence was not so much characteristic ignorance or indifference but characteristic acquiescence.
I’m a hoarder, compulsively stuffing our words, moments, even smells and textures, into our collective cache. This is where my problem begins.
*I’m On A Wire To See Your Star Shine*
Why this may be exceptional, extraordinary, or even extra-sensory, is quite beyond me. Yet it is, because.
Walking into smoky lifts detecting familiar scents, tortured for forty five seconds by the whiff of _wild fuchsia_ on the strange woman with me. Knowing there to be no more forty five second stolen kisses in the descent from tenth floor to first where your headscarved neighbour and her five children would have caught us had reflexes not been as agile (or paranoiac..).
Coffee and then victim again to second hand smoke in a familiar stairwell – in a cubicle in the fluorescent light – I repeat the motions seeking gratification enough to purge you from my system.
Yet never quite as maddeningly, never again as an idiot teenager, caught breathless between lust and what would eventually manifest as some strain of a modern, forbidden love. Always unfamiliar women on strange beds to familiar tunes, always shutting my eyes and thinking of you.
*And If There Was A Sequel , Would You Love Me Like An Equal?*
The series of questions I want answered too, all neatly categorised under a deceptively simple title, “Is It Wicked Not To Care?”
There aren’t many possibilities.
“Would you love me like an equal?”
“Would you love me ’til I’m dead?”
But the song finally settles on — “or is there.. someone else instead..?” Thus ending her song.
I don’t have the luxury of ending a tune on as abrupt a note because the movie plays on in my head, always. I don’t have the luxury of offering you such extremes either; or even the luxury of offering you a choice at all.
*Back To Circumstances, Pragmatism, The Rest Of Our Lives*
To being enigmas offering sordid updates of the latest conquests.
To trying to do something about my _amazing memory_, especially the bit about “doubt that baby, not that easy, not after all this..”. Wondering if perhaps I live in a parallel universe where I make up these random things inside the movies in my head. Then I remember You’re Ha Ha High Babe Can’t Keep It On The Ground, because it was _easier to pretend_ you were drunk. Ultimately.
Between a rock and a hard place.. between now and later. (Later: “Thanks babe you’re my rock.” “I’m also your hard place.”)
*Six Barrel Shotgun/Exit Music For A Soap*
*forty five* seconds of stolen kisses, multiplied x no. of times
*two weeks* of initiation rites, multiplied by x amount of mind games
*x* months of being busier being enigmas, silence is not absence but.. (fill in blanks, you know the rest)
*two months* of breaking new ground, subtracting lies deception manipulation for a change
*three years*, a history of our pain
(charted out in six hundred eighty four kilobytes of text even more spam two folders as pictorial accounts of happier times missing forty five second stolen kisses when traversing the lengths of my island in the name of love cost only fourteen dollars eighty cents, one way
and my thumb still twitches to the letter L on my keypad because _unlike the rest of my body it has yet to learn you are no longer a phone call or one hundred and sixty letters away_ but… fill in blanks, you know the rest..)
possibly related
You’ve Got It All Wrong / Nabeh / Singaporeans for Procreating on Saturdays / The Fourth Woman / Roundtable /