Cigarette smoke swirls up to a white washed ceiling as lights from passing cars create moving patterns of phantoms. Phantoms who laugh at us.
It’s 2:30 AM and you ask me why you’re so scared
all the time. And I look at you and you remind me of an Indian headdress.
You’re not scared, sweetheart. Your fears ride the wind but the feathers stay.
It’s 2:32 AM and you command I write about you.
There is India ink on the nightstand and a safety pin on your pillowcase and I
spend the next eight minutes marking you with the proximate vocabulary of how I
want you.
It’s 2:40 AM and you can’t sleep. We’ve spent the
last three hours crushing the sleeping pills into ash and we’ve blown it into
soda bottles of strawberry cola but you say it still tastes of resigned
escapism.
It’s 2:41 AM and time is a bag of bones that drags
itself over cracked asphalt. It takes too long even though we’re not waiting
for anything - but we’re the liars in room 618 because you’re waiting for the
forest and I’m waiting for you to get out of it.
It’s 3:00 AM and I’m reading. You grab my hands
and trace the folds in my fingers where the rhymes hide. I’ve been trying to
put it on hold, telling you I’ve lost them.
It’s 3:17 and it’s just another night threatening
to tear at the seams to reveal a morning I can’t will into being easier for
you.
Neither of us have had much luck with
relationships. For years he’s been on-again, off-again with the same shitbag,
the same abusive scum. I would kill just to be “on” with anybody at all. Two
lonely losers lost in a night of unrelenting sadness and paranoia. At least for
now, we have each other…
1 comment:
Thank you.
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