If I Had Only Felt How It Feels To Be Yours

I will go back and detergent my hands until the alien-ness of them is a summer arm scraping, is MSN message typing, trying to keep up with a words per minute sort of a man who develops exactly how you expect, or better, which is almost always not the way development works and everyone who got it wrong you sacrifice like shrunk clothes to charity shop skips which’ll never sell because the label doesn’t match up the seams.

Re-reading every message and text, some people don’t change and others are potential-less when they started off fat like fruit. And how could you know the way this’d end, if there aren’t ends and ends aren’t games in which you wait and stop waiting like queues you can’t quite bother with. And things I wish you’d think were eradicated, vindicated, but good Catholics know that the release is temporary and word only and someone else’s prerogative entirely. And Prerogative, that’s a Britney Spears reference, and you get that, and I’m sorry I could fuck someone over so intent on saving, preserving me, or just witnessing what I turned into.

Maybe, Obviously, Do It Differently Now

I didn’t make the right decision then when right decisions weren’t to be made and guts couldn’t be trusted. Twilight hadn’t been written so how could we know how to pick between two people. Joey and Pacey and Dawson were well-wrought and pending cancellation, but no-one speaks sense like Stephenie in heart matters and I’ve learned more in three and half books than I did from the Bible but that’s technically a lot more books so maybe the two are incomparable. Maybe. Although I’ve stood in the middle of a religious fervour and watched hands flip like Mexican waves at football matches, and my stomach’s punched like bad news Wednesdays and dodgems and I told the truth once and re-reading the Chat Log is a little like reliving and I forgot Radiohead, erased every that year gig and desperately missed, lived an on-offer dialogue which I should’ve switched for long distance, pain in the ass, only.

And I’d do it differently now. I’d pick apart ideals first until I understood that the un-understandable is a waste of time and what’s not is hands on duvets, inseparable and an aura of an online almost and seat scrapes and two-shoulder warmth and answer phones to call back and un-do and every lesson I’ve learned twice and it’s never sunk, not even the second, the way butter’s a lump on top of bread, just-cut, ready to drag like botched face lifts.

I’d like to instill the sort of gumption I flunked so the right people stick and the wrong sooner know they’d not. But I can’t rewrite Chat Log.