my careless contagion

She has eyes that have captured my soul her fingertips trace my bones like they are her home when I wake I am alone and the world out there is still turning though my world is dead That girl knows sex is like dying a little be careful who you choose  to die with tonight you may never rise again When I think about her I see her as a painting painted in a happy moment by the saddest, deadest artist who swore he'd never paint again What he did with her is nothing short of a masterpiece nothing short of a miracle after heaven ran out of them she's perfect like that, though frozen in time When the lights go out tonight I'll see her again though like a dewy dream she'll evaporate again That girl knows sex is like dying a little she didn't want to die with me that's why I always painted her with her clothes on In the new morning's disappointment I'll remember her as I say my prayers and maybe she'll think of me ...

"I see my future in your eyes." Those were the words I wanted to say to you all those years ago in my parents' basement. Oh, my dear, if only I had. How would our lives be different today?  It's one thing to love a woman. It is an incontestable fact I love you. It's another thing to miss a woman. That is another incontestable fact of how I feel, I'm afraid. But sadly, I believe I have missed you most of my life. Not only that, but I missed out on you.  If someone asked me what I love about you, I could answer at length. But the question I cannot answer is WHY I love you. Why do I miss you? Why do I love you? The answer is buried in my DNA, perhaps. It rides on my synapses and gathers in the corners of my mind, building upon itself until it overwhelms me. You make sense to me. I want you near me always, as I thought you would be.  It was a cruel day I realized you would never be mine. To experience that day twice in a lifetime was heretofore unthinkab...

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. If my math is correct, then a thousand pictures are worth a million words.  This woman I had a brief relationship (or whatever you want to call it) with, showed me hundreds, if not a thousand, pictures of her family going back decades. It's fascinating. I can't look at them anymore, but for a while, I pored over them. The last time I looked at them in any depth was December, and that's when I had a breakdown.  Pictures tell stories. Pictures record events. Pictures always say something, even if the characters are trying not to. Something is always conveyed. To the people in the photograph, it may not even be obvious, but it's always there.  Some of those photos are seared in my brain. I don't have to look at them anymore because they'll never leave me. Was she trying to make me jealous? I don't think so. Still, I was jealous looking at those photos. She, her husband, and two children look natural ...