tales of a girl in the city

octobre 24, 2005


I am at my desk, and I can hardly see because I'm crying so hard. Over IM comes the message from one of his best friends: It will just take time. I know he's right. It will take time. Or, rather, time will take it. Chip at it little by little, carry it off to be dumped into the quarry along with all the other fossils.

But we all know there are some faces you'll always look for.

Even having moved on to other names and other happinesses, even after time has done its chiseling, there are the ones who sank into bone-level. The ones who saw you. Who knew about the price of gleaming.

And now the phone rings, here I go: "Good afternoon! The **** Building. Sales Office. This is Kathryn! How can I help you?" Just like a trapeze artist. Swinging from mood to mood.

I have a shadow puppet of a date tomorrow night. The silhouette of the shadow of a mask of a date, over a dinner that I will not taste. And I'm going because I'm scared to death that I'll never find anyone who wants to read aloud to me again. And who will amaze me? Who will let me be me? Because I showed you everything about me, everything I am now seems tied to you.