mambo number 5

i'm arguing that it wasn't a choice for you. i'm contesting the notion that you had a choice.

but then again why you would have needed one is a little beyond me. so you didn't get one, and that's fair.

i'm contesting the memory of your eyes and how you made me feel.

set yourself against the memory of lips, c. set yourself against the memories of cats and lips and not knowing what it was you felt. 5 in a mirror. dry hump on a beach and writing someone's sonnets in the sand... love and geography.

is there a way to define a memory, especially ones as overplayed as these? some sort of teardrop crystallized into a diamond, mid-cheek, or something equally derivative? hard as the road in santa cruz, riding a bike and throwing roses at your house? judging? red fishnets?

i don't want to eradicate these traces; they are what make me me now. for now. sometimes.