what is it in us?

a displaced "fourty" year old has displaced herself in my book.
Diaries 1910-1913 Franz Kafka.
she says it was lovely meeting you, and to yours truly; if you wanna.

to boo!hoo! or to bookmark? you'll be happy to know i placed her on page 40:

January 3. "You," I said, and then gave him a little shove with my knee, "I want to say goodbye." At this sudden utterance some saliva flew from my mouth as an evil omen.

She can live there and feel silly or stay in Oakland on March 04, as the postmarked date suggests.

and it's ironic, and it's sad, two nights prior i dreamt i drew a pig on the abdomen of a child. i threw up in a bathtub:  a hairball.  my doors felt gun shots and i anticipated being attacked. later, i panicked and it still rules me from the pit of my stomach, you said, i was dreaming of being vulnerable to you. and then you punched me in the gut with oblivion. i ache, i can't eat, i hate everyone and i hate love.

Don't you want another fight? 

In the public eye, a pelvic thrust to the side,

My intuition runs hotter than the yellow 

Which shines above us, which warms us,

And I wish you'd melt in lava

I cannot reach you when diamonds rub their intentions;

A lackluster footsie, a moment to be open, are these legs not enough?

Are all men blind? What are they blind of? A woman has never calloused my fear with "you are crazy," Remember the days of pleading, 

Remember them most of all when you are bored of me. Then look at me from across the room,

I will not wait. 

I'm thorny. I remember easier days. What is love supposed to do for us? "Love is work," but I already have a job. There are no take backs. No throw backs. What do you do for me?