I am wry. I am today. I write the future with my body and my words. You can reach me, but only with long arms. Stand apart to become an object of desire. So far that you want it more. In a glass case. You want me. to be in my skin. See what I see. Be what I am. Touch me but I am untouchable. Feel my skin under you. How things could be. But its all in your head.
This is not about me.
I made a flipbook of all our old photos and letters. I spent days on it just glueing things in place. My fingers got all sticky. And soon, as I brushed something from my face or wiped my hands on my pants I became covered in bits of our history. Traces of you and I covering my body. The whole story was there, just waiting to be read out of the fragments.
This is not about me.
I made a flipbook of all our old photos and letters. I spent days on it just glueing things in place. My fingers got all sticky. And soon, as I brushed something from my face or wiped my hands on my pants I became covered in bits of our history. Traces of you and I covering my body. The whole story was there, just waiting to be read out of the fragments.
reacher:
Very eloquent. I tend to throw the fragments away. 
longtimecoming:
