ACT 1: The Meeting. Your love is still fresh in my mind. I danced in the apartment rather than out and ran the last half block home. You could laugh if I didn’t know that you were doing it too. Soft souls are contagious late at night. Faces screenlit. The virus of remembering catches you unaware in the dark.”breathe into my hands, a cup, like a glass to drink from” There are no metal bowls to amplify anymore, and though I still attack strangers in my sleep, I can’t wait to hear you say my name again.
INTERLUDE: The girl arrives, stage left. She is painted up to look as a whore, but is really the mistress in disguise. Her fear leads her to disaster. *audience laughter* The anti-hero carries her off. Black.
ACT 2: The Supposition. My mother was over today. I told myself to jump right in. It’s only fire, after all. I’d forgotten that I couldn’t tell her before. I could show her nothing. It happened once that I moved out and she never noticed. No one else can tell that time. Only you and only I. History magnified through snatches of memory. Working together, we could tell who we were, but it’s not who I am. Every minute accounted for..We’re slipping into this so easily.
intermission – chocolate to be found in the lobby
ACT 3: The Failure. I can’t imagine what I was to you, how it is that we’re suddenly even. I want to ask questions, but uselessly so. Everything is unfolding, a painted roll of cloth spilling out onto this text floor. You said tonight, but I arrived too late.
Oh the shame! The ignomy! Michele and Dominique got to see the pictures today. I collected as many rolls of film as I could find when moving out and just this week had them developed. They would be better if they were airbrushed and lifeless. It’s not even a case of style before content. They are simply and only appalling. Michelle just laughed and laughed, “How is it possible to ruin black & white photography?“, then when it was Domni’s turn her first words were, “Dude, you suffered in your relationship! You SO made sacrifices! Holy cow! It’s creepy!!”
I think she’s got a perspective that I should cultivate.
I think I’m open again to falling from grace.
Tomorrow, I need to wear myself out. Kick this sleeping with the dawn. Gotherize and go dancing among the wannabe morbid. Sunday bloody sunday.
Tomorrow the Frenchman and the Poet are expected to call. Another reason to cut off an ear. I feel I should have tokens to hand out, like the fearie tale princesses gave to thier knights. I think mine would have numbers though, a ticket machine set-up. “number 145. you are not unique”
I’ll pay you in chocolate
Tonight, on the other hand, was filled with illuminating laughter. I had a chance at convincing myself someone only saw things what they convinced themselves they saw. Fashioning stained glass into a superwaif. I was wrong. It’s like somewhere – there’s been waiting for such a long time. Thinking that everything was pointless, yes, but I’d forgotten that I was only in a sheet. I can’t imagine the first impression.
Dies with an arrow and fire like an old triptych saint