In quintessential triviality for years in this fleshcase a shesoul dwelt.

How fantastic it is for that one to be engaged.  You know, how sickening are the cinches that twist fate.  If only it weren't bedlam, if only I could have been closer, had been there, it could have been me, that is, if I had been beautiful. If I only I'd been there, and beautiful. That red haired girl could have very well been alone.  Instead, I'm here, in my room.  And she's the fair one.  That cheeky eye.  You know, I remember it very clearly.  (As I often do, blessed or cursed with a clear memory, I'm not quite sure, but nonetheless.)   I remember you said, I don't like her very much.  But I knew better, I knew enough.  Where did it go?  The thinness of the air when we sat at night in the car? That blown out car?  And oh, with a hole, couldn't speak, thin air. I couldn't speak, not for the heavy hole where my throat was.  How I wanted to say I cared where you'd go.  I cared what they did to you.  And the joke was, you didn't care. And I spent nights staring, wondering. Oh, yes, the glare on your skin in the movies, the glow, and my weakness, how weak, when you didn't know I was looking.  And why does it transpose?  To him, oh always him, to you, (he said he wanted to ravage me in the movies, I was wanted, once) and how it crackles when I see your black eyes, oh you, and that low look, brooding.  Did you show her your lyrics?  I'm doubting.  Why was I never worth the words, the chance?  That's all it was.  Chance.  Issued in our earliest moves, while we danced, ignorantly, among suburban walls with daisied wallpaper and down aisles of half-deserted malls, and winding streets of neighborhoods crowded with fences and stripped of all the tallest trees, it could have happened to anyone, we all thought it was so much and we made it so.  Don't you see, it hardly even meant anything at all?  It hardly even mattered? We made our way regularly and at random chance you bumped into her, and in the school halls, you thought, this will do, this is comfortable.  And quick.

Comfortable. I felt comfortable before.  It's all so sick.  That you and her should happen to meet, and never think twice, never quit, not even once!  Why so perfect, why so predictable?  Down the avenues, walking, you chose her and not me, and her, and her, and even another girl, people meet and stick, because they're lonely.  Fuck, this marriage will only lead to more houses and more ground thick with picket fences, and your very own closed off world that I could have told you would happen when I was sixteen years old.  Why her? Why red haired girl?  It could just as easily have been me, and yet I'm not there. Why do I feel, why did I always feel, even milling in a crowd, even among people throwing themselves into confusion, onto couches, heavy, panting, even in the dead night streets when we louses are drunk and grasping for bare hands, bare skin, and you feel the thick of tongues and lips, that I am not and was never there?  And that I'm off, the quiet floating music in the air, the thinness of the moon slanting in the air, that one time, laying on the floor, bare, in the very cold, as someone is kissing me, my mouth, my breasts, my eyelids and my ears, my fallen hair... all I can do is listen.   While you are kissing me, even while strangers are kissing me I listen to the music playing, the oriental blare, the tinkling of the guitar strings, the thuds of feet on floorboards.    The air. They dance around me, you dance upon me, the chimes play on the front stair, as I remember.  I will always remember those faint chimes. You're one and all the same, and I am not there.  It was easiest to find her, I can't be touched, not really. I'm not really there.