Secrets Shared

[Previously shared with Carl and James Joyce and me.]

• he dreamt of obscurity, but his vain attempts at effacement would only succeed in refining and polishing a self he had lost long ago.
• once she told him a story about a white knight, and a princess that didn’t need saving. am i the knight? he asked her. no, she answered. you’re the person i’m telling the story to.
• stay, he asked her, not meaning forever.
• you’re so beautiful, he said, you’re so beautiful. she closed her eyes, and whispered to herself, i know.
• she made no mention of recent events, and how he might be the force behind them.
• he imagined holding her wrists, and not letting go, until he was done.
• she calls, only to know that he is there. and it pleases him.
• when he told her that he needed her, he meant that he needed her to desire him.
• what you lack in experience, he grinned menacingly, you can make up for with enthusiasm.
• he explained himself to her. not through what he said, but by what he refused to admit.
• she reminded him of a place that he was almost sure he would never see again.
• she was not foolish enough to attempt to save him from himself, despite his obvious need for grace.
• do you practice that smile of yours? he asked. which one? she smiled back.
• you’ll never know me well enough to know what it is that i really need, she wanted to say.
• he watches her apply, wipe off, and reapply her lipstick, yet again, and licks his lips at her compulsion.
• she asked for more, but she wouldn’t take what he had to offer.
• i’m not sure you’ve turned out to be the man that i thought i was falling in love with, she said, but you do have your moments.
• stop thinking, he said. you stop thinking i’m thinking about you, she replied.
• she was unwilling to substitute fascination for trust, or beauty for sincerity.
• you used me, she told him, and then laughed at her assertion.
• her face was made more beautiful by wisps of hair which he would brush from her cheek.
• they held each other, dreaming together, but their dreams were not shared.
• you could stop, she said. and do what? he asked. something else, she said. he threw up his arms. that’s exactly what i was doing before i started doing this, he said.
• you’ve found the right words, she said, it’s just that you never quite discovered the right order.
• there’s nothing left, is there, she said. i think there’s a pop-tart in the cupboard, he said.
• i was so wrong, he said. that doesn’t mean that now you’re right, she said.
• she saw, in the distance, a place where she didn’t hurt. but she couldn’t tell whether she was looking ahead, or behind.
• she wanted answers to questions he did not understand.
• i think i love you, he said. is that what you think, she said.
• she wondered why the shortest possible distance between him and his dreams was straight through her.
• i want to be in love with someone like you, he said, holding her closely, and laughing.
• she told him that she wanted him to leave, but forgot to mention when she expected him to return.
• i still love you, he said, to no one.
• she knew him, because she knew his failings.
• just because you can’t love yourself, she said, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t love me.
• at the point she understood his motives she no longer understood her own.
• each time, they acted as if the ending were near, forgetting that it was already over.
• she stopped longing for him when she stopped belonging to him.
• you’re always clinging to clichés, she said. you may be right, he said. but you have to admit, it’s better than talking in riddles.
• don’t worry. we’ll still be friends, he said, even after you don’t want to talk to me anymore.
• when he told her he had waited too long, it was then that she knew that she loved him.
• she would close her eyes and imagine herself as someone else, someone who possessed him.
• avalanche, she said to herself, using a secret language that only she and he understood.
• (it’s not the way you toy with my affections), he said. when did you learn to speak in parentheses? she asked.
• they would read the personals together, feigning humor, making mental notes.
• she kept the love letters he had sent her, to help mark the passage of time.
• when i try to remember what we had, he said, all i can really remember is what we wanted.
• all of my thoughts are of you, he said, and of the way you would hurt me time and again.
• sometimes, it feels as if we’re repeating the same mistakes only to forget the ones we’ve already made, she said.
• you’re not like her, he told her. that’s right, she said, i’m still here.
• he stole her heart, and kept it in a box, by the bed. she found it, one day, and asked him what it was. oh nothing, he replied.
• she forgot that the only way to love him was to make him fall out of love with her.
• it’s as if we were interrupted at some point, she said, and then we never quite got back around to finishing our story.
• he couldn’t love her, not even enough to stay away.
• we could try something new, she said. i thought you already were, he said. what was his name, again?
• you think i like this? he asked. i don’t think you know anything else, she said.
• do you love me? he asked. i’m not going to write a song about it, if that’s what you mean, she said.
• he thought of the special face she made only for him, and all the others.
• i don’t know how i could live without you, she swore to him, on a stack of travel brochures.
• she almost believed it all, until he told her that he believed in her.
• the world may not revolve around me, he said, but i could go supernova at any moment.
• i can forgive you for being unfaithful, he said, but not for being indiscreet.
• the present is just so many possible futures, waiting all together, in a crowded room, she told him, as she moved away.
• because he reminded me of someone i used to be, she told him.
• she wasn’t able to forgive him for what he hadn’t done.
• you’re the one with the steering wheel, she said. i’ve just got the pedals.
• sometimes, you make me feel like christmas, she said. and other times? he asked. the rest of the time, she said, i remember how you forgot my birthday.
• do you ever wonder if we’d be more in love if we’d never had sex? he asked her. no, she said, of course we’d be.
• i suppose i should have known that when you told me you needed your space, that you’d find it in somebody else’s closet, he said.
• she gave of herself once more, to show him how cruel he could be.
• she never knew what it was that brought him back to her, or if she had anything to do with it.
• tell me about him, he said. in a lot of ways, she said, he reminds me of you.
• if you always knew how it would end, he said, you might have at least saved us both the trouble.
• if you’re very quiet, you can sometimes hear the stars, she said. you’re not listening to the sighs of stars, he whispered, but to the impossibility of desire.
• you’ve made all those promises before, she said. the least you could do is come up with some new ones.
• can we role-play? she asked. who do you want to be? he asked. i’ll be her, she said, and you’ll be you.
• he never knew when to stop, she said, but i suppose that was part of his charm.
• i don’t really see how your need for closure necessarily entails fucking me one last time, she said.
• do you have one for me:

If you have one that you’d like to contribute please do send it along.

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