Saturday, 26 March 2005

buxom

To hate a word is nonsense but to regret it is conscious, and I regret buxom.

But she was. Beautiful too.

Later she would scream in her boyfriend’s face, telling him he was nothing, a fucking waste, and that he was the most amazing person she had ever met, but a fucking failure because of her own expectations, she who is happy to sit and smile and watch the planets, a fucking failure.

He took it in the spirit in which it was soaked.
I lose my tenses.

Torn between two, she relayed the detailed of a friend’s wedding, a confusion of priorities, one half of the service riddled with conflict – pagan misnomer. She is perfect in many ways, contradiction though that is. Without denomination, dominated by love and empathy she survives through the warmth of strangers.

I get bitter on my own.

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