The Scientist
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Jan 1, 2003
- Messages
- 5
I blinked, and I was with her.
Jennifer, the woman who comforted me
when I thought you had forgotten about me
and left me behind.
Even though we ended badly, we had six long months of beautiful sex.
I did love her. She helped me forget,
but in turn, I forgot who I was.
She comforted me when I used to think about her,
and how I would read the words she sent out into the world,
for all to see how much she was changing.
We were walking the streets of Paris,
Jennifer and I.
I looked at her, and she smiled back at me,
feeling good, something she used to make me feel.
She was submissive enough to know that she could
make me feel like a real man.
None of this "I want you/I don't want you" bullshit,
that I got from her.
The cobblestones under our feet,
the skies, polluted with thick clouds
We walked in this Monet painting,
talking about our lives now.
She was forgotten by her friends,
abandoned and alone.
I told her that I still think of her,
and wished to see her again.
To make things work,
in such a way that we would be able to
retire at that farm in the countryside,
watching our children run around,
laughing and screaming.
But, like myself, she had too much going on in her life
to rekindle a burning passion that engulfed the world
in the mixture of her vaginal fluid and my semen.
I close my eyes, and I'm in a familiar house.
We are all celebrating a union of two souls...
but there's something amiss.
Women from my past are everywhere.
The Red, who used me for drugs and sympathy,
stands there with a near-clone of myself,
enamoured and enthralled.
The one, who used me for my heart and my soul,
lies on a black leather couch with one of her hangers-on.
His tounge forcefully fucking her mouth, and she,
underneath him, taking it all in.
This sickening display infuriates me,
and I kick the couch to get her attention.
"I'm leaving. I have to go."
I cannot escape the mental image.
It kills me slowly,
just like her tales of adventure and love.
You look at me stunned,
and ask me "why?"
Like it's not obvious enough.
My reaction is cheered upon by The Red
"Yes! I'll keep you reacting to that. Get angry. Think about all the other times you've been spurned by those you trusted. DO IT."
I walk out the front door,
and I wish I was back in the streets of Paris,
a place I've never been.
I light a cigarette,
and I wish I was that man walking out behind me,
who just discovered his true calling in life.
And I wake up from this horrible nightmare, tears in my eyes, and wonder
"Why can't I be like him?"
Jennifer, the woman who comforted me
when I thought you had forgotten about me
and left me behind.
Even though we ended badly, we had six long months of beautiful sex.
I did love her. She helped me forget,
but in turn, I forgot who I was.
She comforted me when I used to think about her,
and how I would read the words she sent out into the world,
for all to see how much she was changing.
We were walking the streets of Paris,
Jennifer and I.
I looked at her, and she smiled back at me,
feeling good, something she used to make me feel.
She was submissive enough to know that she could
make me feel like a real man.
None of this "I want you/I don't want you" bullshit,
that I got from her.
The cobblestones under our feet,
the skies, polluted with thick clouds
We walked in this Monet painting,
talking about our lives now.
She was forgotten by her friends,
abandoned and alone.
I told her that I still think of her,
and wished to see her again.
To make things work,
in such a way that we would be able to
retire at that farm in the countryside,
watching our children run around,
laughing and screaming.
But, like myself, she had too much going on in her life
to rekindle a burning passion that engulfed the world
in the mixture of her vaginal fluid and my semen.
I close my eyes, and I'm in a familiar house.
We are all celebrating a union of two souls...
but there's something amiss.
Women from my past are everywhere.
The Red, who used me for drugs and sympathy,
stands there with a near-clone of myself,
enamoured and enthralled.
The one, who used me for my heart and my soul,
lies on a black leather couch with one of her hangers-on.
His tounge forcefully fucking her mouth, and she,
underneath him, taking it all in.
This sickening display infuriates me,
and I kick the couch to get her attention.
"I'm leaving. I have to go."
I cannot escape the mental image.
It kills me slowly,
just like her tales of adventure and love.
You look at me stunned,
and ask me "why?"
Like it's not obvious enough.
My reaction is cheered upon by The Red
"Yes! I'll keep you reacting to that. Get angry. Think about all the other times you've been spurned by those you trusted. DO IT."
I walk out the front door,
and I wish I was back in the streets of Paris,
a place I've never been.
I light a cigarette,
and I wish I was that man walking out behind me,
who just discovered his true calling in life.
And I wake up from this horrible nightmare, tears in my eyes, and wonder
"Why can't I be like him?"
)