10/27/2005
Postcards FRom Home
10.11.05
This is a story. This is the story of you and me and countless foul bottles of listering chartreuse we drank pretending it was absinthe after too many Poppy Brite stories. This is a story set to a Billy Holliday CD set on endless loop with occasional interjections of the Cure. This is a story with too many small details and not enough end. It is a book put down two chapters before the resolution and I do not know where it is going, nor am I positive you do. This is a story meant to unravel slowly, over years. I will forget the colour of your eyes and how your skin smelled of cedar, you will forget the way I held a cigarette while lighting it and how I cocked my head when asking to be spanked. You will go on to New York and resume the story I so rudely interrupted; I will stay here, learning to be a housewife. Will we exchange cards at Christmas, will I remember your son's birthday and how you looked holding him? ¶ 10:39 PM
This is a story. This is the story of you and me and countless foul bottles of listering chartreuse we drank pretending it was absinthe after too many Poppy Brite stories. This is a story set to a Billy Holliday CD set on endless loop with occasional interjections of the Cure. This is a story with too many small details and not enough end. It is a book put down two chapters before the resolution and I do not know where it is going, nor am I positive you do. This is a story meant to unravel slowly, over years. I will forget the colour of your eyes and how your skin smelled of cedar, you will forget the way I held a cigarette while lighting it and how I cocked my head when asking to be spanked. You will go on to New York and resume the story I so rudely interrupted; I will stay here, learning to be a housewife. Will we exchange cards at Christmas, will I remember your son's birthday and how you looked holding him? ¶ 10:39 PM
