paint it black, by janet fitch
that book is what this is all about
if you don't find this to be at all a good read,
read the book, because it's not like i could compare.

this is supposed to have an ongoing, patternless feel to it - no specific structure, no solid train of thought. i tried to relate it as much to the story as possible.

the last portion (in italics) is a DIRECT quote from the book paint it black by janet fitch. i am, in no way, taking ownership, claiming rights, etc., for said quote, themes, plots, or the book.

cherry red lips, burning with a passion
only lovers should ignite
the feeling glowing like the red and angry harvest moon
at night, melting through the back windows,
the beams of light distorted and broken through the shattered glass
and the haze of your foggy mind,
numbed still by the memory of him, of you

smoke a drag, down a drink, we'll melt together, it'll all be okay by tomorrow

but it's starting to get old, the smoke's getting stale
and whenever you lose a part of yourself, when you lose
the only thing you ever loved,
the only thing you want to do is find something new,
bring something into your life that wasn't there before
and fill that gap that should have never been there.
something, someone new, someone you know nothing about
but can pick apart, figure out
little by little, day by day, and once you know all the secrets,
it's all back to the beginning, again,
the sensation is still the same,
and in the end, it's not something that will fix anything

but something you'll never stop doing

maybe it's dulling, it's becoming routine,
something you need to keep getting by, keep surviving
keep forgetting so you won't remember and relive
it's the actors and the tequila and the voddy,
clamped between your legs as you drive around at night
you remind yourself, "i needed him just as much
as he needed me", but it doesn't explain why
you weren't there for him, it doesn't explain why he offed himself
when you were the best thing that happened to him
you were the best damn thing that happened to him,
and it's never going to get away from you
you'll never forget that the best damn thing that happened to him

wasn't enough to save him

got anything? i feel like hell, life's a bitch again this week, what's new?

you're trapped in the apartment where everything there is just
something that used to be his, used to be in his hands, used to be
a book he read, a chair he sat in, a painting he painted, a dish he washed
it's all fucking his and you can't stand to go in your room,
lay on your bed, his bed, the bed that belonged to both of you
you can't even read his journals and learn what he really thought of you,
what he really thought of everything, if he really loved you

comme il faut, just so

it was just so incomprehensible, just so imperceptible
he was just so,
and that's what was just so wrong about everything

you were just an okie, a tyrell-born okie, and it's all your fault, he should
have never been congregating with an okie, a goddamn cotton-picking okie

now everything you believe in, everything you see and hear
has no interest for you, you do not smile, you do not find joy,
you only remember years as if they were yesterday,
and pretend he's at the store, for a little while,
or at the laundromat, too caught up in talking to the spanish mothers,
asking which detergents work better and what smell of fabric softener
they like the best, and which stains are hardest to get rid of,
to realise how late it's been and how many days he hasn't been home,
and how long it's been since he's seen you, his little josie,
the jeanne to his blaise, together in their montmarte, it was bosch, it was paris
it was forever

"we loved each other once...didn't we? i can't remember. you'll have to remember for both of us. i hope you find someone who can meet your needs better than i could. i'm just not up to it, see you in the next life. michael."