Amanda's Thoughts
By sweetbrother
There is a solitary figure-a long shadow under a streetlight-could it be that man, come to haunt my dreamson another restless night?I can't escape this troubled pastof collecting bruises and apologiesfrom him;I can't escape the feeling in himthat he confuses for loveYes, I remember happier dayswhen he appeared in my lifealways readywith a joke or a caressI remember when he showered mewith rosesand made me laugh until I cried,but on darker days with himthere were more tears from me-they came in floodsunleashed by my soul's upheavalMany nights, he is a taunting voice on my machine-though the number's been changed several times,he hunts me down,still seeking hurtful pleasure from meThose nights,I imagine himin some dark room,clutching some gauzy garmentI once wore, to please him;even through the distortionof my machine,I can hear his tonesof mirth and steelmixed together,along with dark arousalinspired by my terrorTonight, the man beneath the streetlighttreads slowly toward my doorI cannot see his face in the evening's gloombut I can seea hand cupped close to his ear;then, the shrill cry of my telephonefreezes the blood in my veins;once again, he wants to speak to me tonight...a very rough draft, and no, this was not influenced by the fact that I've been reading Lonkert recently. It's a response to a story by Steve Martin: 'Letters to Amanda.' It's a funny story, but I thought Amanda might see things differently. Written November 26th, 2001 © on Nov 26 2001 07:52 AM PST 0 • 10
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"There is a solitary figure-a long shadow under a streetlight-could it be that man, come to haunt my dreamson another restless night?I can't escape this troubled pastof collecting bruises and apologiesfrom him;I can't escape the feeling in himthat he confuses for loveYes, I remember happier dayswhen he appeared in my lifealways readywith a joke or a caressI remember when he showered mewith rosesand made me laugh until I cried,but on darker days with himthere were more tears from me-they came in floodsunleashed by my soul's upheavalMany nights, he is a taunting voice on my machine-though the number's been changed several times,he hunts me down,still seeking hurtful pleasure from meThose nights,I imagine himin some dark room,clutching some gauzy garmentI once wore, to please him;even through the distortionof my machine,I can hear his tonesof mirth and steelmixed together,along with dark arousalinspired by my terrorTonight, the man beneath the streetlighttreads slowly toward my doorI cannot see his face in the evening's gloombut I can seea hand cupped close to his ear;then, the shrill cry of my telephonefreezes the blood in my veins;once again, he wants to speak to me tonight...a very rough draft, and no, this was not influenced by the fact that I've been reading Lonkert recently. It's a response to a story by Steve Martin: 'Letters to Amanda.' It's a funny story, but I thought Amanda might see things differently...."