What I thought would be an easy speech twisted itself around my real feelings and squeezed the life out of them: flutters and twitches then became letters in leather-bound autobiography, leaf stamp glittering on her fingers, that's all now. No, even less. A history text is all. There will be an open book test later today, because all the thrills now read like one - or a library (better put) of all of them, stone-enclosed tomes behind glass doors, glittering gold - a color left over from my studies at Middle Age, before my thesis sunk to a glossed-over footnote in my own opus. The sequence is the same as Yippee! and Ya-Ya! and orgasm turned to the fondness of fingers trailing over flesh turned to Dolby Digital method acting tears and Midterms' gold and please forgive me this has to end and I don't know why. Your flutters remain nestled against my twitches and flutters within the stone-tomed prior weekend's science the crushing of thrills the passing of time my digits pausing leaf stamp glittering upon twisted speech. It was easy after it wasn't easy to remember how you faded how you whirred through a swirl of subjective conjecture designed for continuous use in possibly hostile environments and how after all I was the one who spoke remembered and archived the moment folio such and such third floor east wing overdue please forgive me tomorrow say yes to this at least today.
� 2004 by john e
