Once I Considered Myself a Poet

Now all of my words seem useless. They are not pretty or ugly words, and that's the problem. The use of them does not make the reader tilt their head to one side and contemplate WHY I chose that word, or phrase, or even why I chose to include that tid-bit at all, and I wish that my words could do that. I wish that they did that for me.

I'm driving to Dallas tomorrow. Ex. #1 has to work and I will beat him to his house but I don't care. Just being around his things makes me feel better. I've been sleeping in one of his old dress shirts just because he wore it. I'm so excited about my trip that I am not going to sleep when I get off of work. I'm going home to pick up the dog and my things, primp and get pretty and then into the car! I'll be there before lunch time. I'm always so pumped on the drive up there that everything is perfect. I always love the music I'm listening to, the weather is always fantastic- I can even find joy in a torrential down-pour. There is the promise of sex (gasp!) and all of the silly things I love that tell me we're meant for each other. I snuggle up next to him sleeping on the couch while he plays video games. We're both happy that way. I love the fact that, like a gentlemen, he always drives and I don't really have the chance to offer. The way we talk to each other, I think it's funny and really wonderful that he calls me "darling" sometimes. He told me the other day that he knows something is really funny when I'm in hysterics, and that's what makes him laugh. We had been watching TV and were sticking grapes under our lips like children so that they distorted our mouths while we made faces at each other. I was in tears, partially because it was so funny, but once I started laughing it hurt and that made me laugh harder. I told him how great it was that I made him laugh, and he laughed at me and said, "You like that I'm laughing at you? not with you?" yes I do. My jokes suck. My stories suck. I'm lucky I can spit out a complete sentence.

I don't want to bore anyone with my mushy talk. Plus, it's no more poetic than the rest of what I've got. I just don't have much feeling left. It's like my body has suffered major trauma, and now all of the nerves are dead. Only once and a while a flash gets through, and I'll write about those later.