Look Right Through Me.

I have been with you for a fairly long time so I've been wondering, would it be okay for me to call you mine? Because some things are easier done than said and some words are heavier than their corresponding illustrations. And I do not think it a coincidence that you love the sound of lips parting and I love the sound of kisses smacking and I know it may seem like a stretch, considering I don't believe in things like determination or fate, but it is fragmented thoughts like this that buoy my heart when I am missing you to death.

C'mon evvverrryboddeee!

Don your cashmere and your velvet and your corduroy!

Au voiture!

Au chateau!

Come now, and don't be so very shy or too very nervous, just because you're the quintessential "not good enough for my boy" girl. The 'All-ugh-days are here, in all their Spode sparkley splendor, and could you be a dear and please pass the thorazine with all the crucifixins'? Because I need more helping and I hate to reach. Now say a prayer to our patron saint, St. George of Bataille: one for the nicotine and two for the lost art of mercy and three for the capricious dreams held at bay and four for the latent personality defects your mother always warned you about, like cereal homomyn abuse and such. Amen. Tell me, now, what's new with you (because I'm not sick enough to guess.) Oh, reaaaaally? Can I interest anyone in a slice of infidelity served on a bed of satellite syndication? Full already, Brother? Now, may I please be excused? My plate is clean and brain is washed and I'd like it so very much if I could just go set a spell by the warm(ed-over) fire, cautiously unwrap some very fine products, and carve holiday designs into myself.