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2004-03-25 || 10:31 a.m. || rotting teeth and letters || i remember near the very end you went to write my name down and couldn't remember how to spell it. pen poised and the question in your mouth, you looked up to ask and i noticed your teeth. i knew each gap and calcification, the silver fillings and newer porcelain ones, and could pick them out thousands of years from now in an exercise of love and fossils. i knew your handwriting and the way you answer the telephone, how your eyes get glassy and wild when you're on your third cup of coffee, how you regularly attempt to clean your bathtub but stop unceremoniously half way. i knew that you woo girls by playing them songs on your guitar in bed and you like to have your head scratched before falling asleep. i knew what was in your closets and in your cupboards and that you secretly liked that i washed your dishes while you talked long-distance to your mother. you couldn't come up with the proper placement of nine letters of the alphabet i would have otherwise hoped (assumed, even, without second thought) had worn grooves into the pathways of you heart and head, and to see your face go blank and hear your voice confirm the lack of impression my name had made on you revised my personal alphabet, pulling out the letters that comprise you like teeth not quite yet loose enough for extraction but not worth the pain and devastation of decay. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |