I’ve got my test, you can drink me, but don’t make me bitter. Don’t leave right after. I should be your heroin hit. These little claws should be your tether. Bring it on lovely, you’ll be my new toy. Be made of stone so I will not break you. Be made of silk so you are smooth. Be made of pliable substance, of life. It must have a heart that’s beating. It must know more than I. Taste this my lovely, let it fill your mouth. I’ve seen the girls, they don’t move like me. I could skin you partially with enough left over to lick. Dance awhile. Stay and I’ll talk like you. It’s been so long since I’ve tasted your tongue. Trace the teeth my love, send me the imprint in a piece of flesh. I stay waiting. It’s been so long since that little death. So long since I heard your sounds. Call to me, to the world. Tear into this chest, take my air, take and remove. Falling off the edge I’ll take you with me. The wind will whip. Snap.
You can drink me, they came back negative.
I’ve decided Laurie Anderson is a cross between Peter Gabrial and Kate Bush. She is music for the complicated middle-aged. I’m worried that I’m listening to so much of it lately. I don’t know if I like it yet. I agree that language is a virus, but I can’t agree with three focus delay on someone’s voice for a full four minutes of song. It recently came to light that my landlord thought I was older than I am, I don’t know if I can afford more weighing down. “Don’t get me wrong, you look quite young for thirty”
It gets harder to sign off. Tonight was difficult like it hasn’t been in awhile. He’s so very close and I can’t reach over to touch him. Fingernails would clink against the screen and I might cry. Salt tears to curse myself with. I’m already reaching the point where it’s uncomfortable to sleep in other peoples beds. My mattress is already off-limits. I will go sleepless to have his absence beside me. It’s physical, a pull of silence. I ran home over glass to get to him tonight. Put the ferret in the bag and flat out ran. The glitter on the street, it cut me in my carelessness. Stopping for traffic, I looked back over my shoulder to see that I had left footprints in the bloodiest cliche imaginable. He’s creating props for the Douglas Coupland show opening Tuesday. Up late painting and hoping I would appear on the screen. We haven’t getten to talk much lately. I caught him, but barely. My pathetic empty schedule is still varied enough to not synch up with the brief gaps in his full life. His internet connection is only from the studio halfway across town so to me his dedication is harder than mine, more effort. After all, I am more than used to saying No. Missing him though. It’s becoming too long. This is becoming a very personal knife I twist. The handle has been polished well by use and the inscriptions inlaid in the blade are all banal. We don’t have a pattern for comfort, we have scattered impressions and a strange interaction from five years ago. Memories of a whore and liar and the wrong street bus. That condo wasn’t empty – I lived there. Smoke and mirrors and things to live down, my darling. Things I hold over his head because I care and can. Because he lets me. I remember this feeling then. The worthiness lack. The not being as fascinating, as intelligent, as this person should have as company. It’s going to feel empty, my bravery. My assumption of tie and hold. I will be continually surprised when he smiles at me. Every last one undeserved. I’m slipping, the strength fading again. I need more to do. Another job to hold onto. My reasons for continuing are all parceled into waiting. End of September is closer than November, but pragmatic says November. Through a glass darkly maybe, but breath. Kindness, kindling, life right now is empty like an old warehouse building. I need a spark to flare into a waterfront disaster.