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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: love lesson #209dots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: isabella
    Elite Ratio:    5.56 - 803/905/472
    Words: 237
    Class/Type: Misc/Misc
    Total Views: 634
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 1228



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    dotslove lesson #209dots
    -------------------------------------------




    see, the thing is, i really liked him. i really did. and he could have had me, but he had to push it.

    i won't lie, it was the bike i fell in love with first. every part of it. how i felt when i got on it. how i held on with my thighs. how outta the blue jack would squeeze my leg, like he felt something good.

    i almost fell for him. almost. (my eyes were beginning to go as soft as his belly.)

    i wrote him yesterday. told him to stop contacting me. that i didn't want to change my number because it's a pain in the ass. and that we loved too differently; there wasn't an 'us' in the cards. i told him i forgave him and if he ever truly loved me, he would walk away.

    he told me it took him most of the day to gather up the courage to respond. said he felt sick. was sad. and that trip to maryland? that was to get the duster for me. too, some other chick that's been riding with him, has my chaps.






    during yoga today, i was trying to let him go. let the chaps go, really.


    i will have wind in my hair again. this i know.





    Submitted on 2012-02-10 07:39:16     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      
    | Posted on 2017-07-02 00:00:00 | by Wolfwatching | [ Reply to This ]
      missing a man is like someone placed a golden chain in your womb... and when he's away from you, miles or years... the distance doesn't matter, he can pull that chain and wake up every emotion you ever felt for him ... you reminded me of what i've been trying to forget...
    | Posted on 2012-02-18 00:00:00 | by Oracle | [ Reply to This ]
      Sometimes people enter into our lives briefly who were not meant to stay for long, but they dug up something embedded deep within us, so when they go, they leave us with a love or passion that was there all along. It's a gift. I'm picturing a bunch of people who have shovels and picks and they're mining the light within us but constantly shuffling along because they, themselves, are not meant to be a permanent presence. So, completely unrelated image, but it was brought out by your piece, which says something. Journal writing is opening.

    Get your ass back on a bike.

    Alia
    | Posted on 2012-02-13 00:00:00 | by O | [ Reply to This ]
      i like how sparse and oblivious it is, open. honest.
    i want to say: mother fuck. Sorry,
    it's really good.
    | Posted on 2012-02-10 00:00:00 | by Daniel Barlow | [ Reply to This ]


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