Lost In Translation
You danced in the light of a full moon, with that silly knit hat that keeps you warm and makes you look Oh so European, perched awkwardly upon your head.
You gyrated and sang along to every song on the Skid Row album as everyone else played poker. You were silly and smiling, care-free and footloose. You were such the distraction that I quickly lost my chips in just enough time to join your late 80�s song and dance party and howl along as Bret belted out, �talk dirty to me�. Even when you pushed me into a chair and played the roll of groupie girl in every hair band video to date, shoving your crotch in my face and grinding on me like a stripper poll, I met your sparkling eyes with mischievous ones of my own; amused indifference is quite the turn on is it not my love?
Days later you are much more subdued, still turning to me for attention, solace and support, but minus the provocative posturing I have grown accustom to. Silence is not uncomfortable and our interactions not awkward. Yet I�ve never seen someone match the far away look of my own face lost deep in thoughts that are never shared, as you do.
While I do prod you for details, summarizations if you will, the responses I get are what I expect. Chatter about Europe, schooling and that bastard of a boyfriend. Though I suppose I shouldn�t curse him so, if not for his lack of luster for your being, you wouldn�t spend nearly as much time with me as you do. I often wonder what you think about when I am at the forefront of your thoughts�
Noch fordere ich fragt nicht als die Illusion, von was sein k�nnte, ist eine zu zerbrechliche Phantasie f�r mich heraus, mit der Wahrheit zu zerst�ren.
Warum muss ich, noch nie geliebt bin lieben?
Ich w�rde meine Seele, nur opfern, ihres zu ber�hren.
And why oh why, dear diary, does everything sound so much better in a language I can�t understand?
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