Remember Xanga? December 26, 2005
I dream of an orange painted room with a distressed green four drawer dresser, black futon bed, Asian lanterns, candles, and bettas swimming in bamboo. Steamy room with a wicker fan blowing overhead, the sun streaming through ivory cotton lace curtains onto a girl in satin, bare legs exposed. Waves of long hair tickling bare shoulders as her husband takes it all off and flings it aside.
Those sexy blue eyes of his staring down at me and taking me in. Me taking in the sight of him. And knowing I will love him forever and he me.
We’ll stumble to the kitchen when we’re done, on an orgasmic high, and eat finger foods and leftovers, preparing for another round.
Bit of Nostalgia
How sad is it that when I remember you – I remember me.
I remember me walking down the trolley, knowing you’d asked for me.
I remember I had curly hair that day, a rare occurance, and you commented on my poney tail.
Now you don’t answer and I always really did mean to be friends.
I suppose it’s for the best.
How sad it is that when I remember you – I remember me.
I remember me walking out into the cold, knowing you’d asked for me.
I remember my jeans were tight on my skinny little thighs, and you commented on my ass.
Now you’re elswhere and I’m glad, because I never meant to be friends.
It’s definitely for the best.
How sad it is that when I remember you – I remember him.
I remember crying in the car driving to your house, knowing he’d ask for me.
I remember that song playing, never ending, and you commented on how we both wanted something else.
Now I’m finally happy, because there were so many of you and now there’s just him.
Not sad at all really.
Anakalian Whims 