| 30. BOOKMARK |
| This is the shirt I wore two years ago in an attempt to impress you forever and ever. And this is the rose, wilted and pressed that I use as a marker when I read your letters. I stand in front of this bathroom mirror turned Friday-night open-hearted confessional, lacking the air to sustain my panics about your tear-stains on my sweatered shoulder. My hands, they're clenching the counter so tightly, they're white with the fear of passion ignited. The sparks in my eyes are dancing unnoticed, but my smile, so dashing, is turned upside-down. This is the picture I keep in my yearbook. Faded and pressed, it holds its beauty well. Tainted and smeared is the writing on its back, with promises that we'll never change. My breath, it fogs this shivering windshield turned Friday-night open-hearted confessional. The radio's lacking appropriate honesty, so I kill the sound and leave me in silence. The passenger seat is stark and empty, dazing my hopes of you leaving with me. I'm cold and shaking, alone and cursing the defroster and everything dear to my heart. |