I've kissed too many people that don't hold back. Yet can't hold on.
I lose myself in my own memories. And in snapshot thumbnail photos. Here you are, there you go, and yeah, myself? My lonesome self.
It's frustrating. Or annoying. Or a combo of said two. A dog chasing a tail thinking its chasing a rabbit. All you get is sick bored and dizzy as all get out. Staring.
Breathing in a ball. Balancing on a popsicle stick of remembrance. Sticky summer days, star laced nights, chilled december romps in stolen times. I robbed myself blind.
Empty pockets. Threadbare young lady. A skeleton case of 'I love yous', chasing the phrase through the years. The intoxication of a longed for, prolonged, fledgling moments. Too weak to soar. Ambitious enough to leap.
Kicking pebbles, one by one, down the cliff into the valley. Hear those echos. Faint, fainter, sweetly fade.
And I stand, more or less, desolate on some barren hillside. Crying to the wind. Counting my tears. Wishing I had vials to be a storybook, to be romantic, to catch each one and name the second, so that my small jar resounded with watery memories.
But no...
I sit. Realistically barren. Suburb couch bound. Sipping wine, cheap wine, cold wine, but my own wine.
And whine.
