witty-remark's Diaryland Diary

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Every day we breath, we swallow the words of lovers, mothers, suckers. Wireless texts, emails, phone calls, spiral through the air and quiver through us.

We inhale love letters and broken hearts; trysts and cysts; the laughter the tears; the misspelled words, the incorrect capitalization; the work email; the resignation; the transcribed sigh.
/sigh

The poem the boy on the train mechanically types out for a girl could be for me. It's not. But for a moment, those words and I share the same space, like a halo hung above my head.
And this entry I formulate could be for him. It's not. But for a moment, all of my semicolons and periods, the ill assigned spaces, could migrate through his chest and spread out his back like wings.

And as I type this, I wonder if any of the hearts he sends me land on the tips of your lips or edges of your fingers, only for a second. If the exclamation marks I send back, dance in your eyes as reflections of daggers. Or if anything, either of you know about the third.
He's there; maybe brushing past your shoulder, weaving through your hair. And though I'm not done with any of you, before he reaches me, he could have been through you first.


1:46 p.m. - Friday, Aug. 06, 2010

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