It’s looking like a long and complicated winter. What weeks change time, what days are these that drag in sunshine dust, swirling up colour to taint our leaves and kill them so they fall, spiralling to the ground. Touch typing, touch again. Put this in a box and bury it, hope the sweet toxins inside don’t seep out to kill the wildlife. Flora and fauna poisoned from painful misapplication of affection. There was a dream of hands last night, pale floating things that tucked my blanket in. Sensation so real I opened my eyes to fine darkness. I thought you found me sleeping.
Your picture etched inside the skull. Blue lined plans, an architect dreamt this and woke up sweating. I’m not so skilled at wielding terrible smiles and fiery words. I can only listen to what flows from these fingers in front of me. There’s a chemical disaster down by the waterfront. Tomorrows front page news. I can taste the flat death in the smoke drifting in the open livingroom door. It closes my lungs, as if it weren’t hard enough to breathe tonight. I’m afraid I’m going to be a girl and dissolve. Let my eyes plead to a non-existent heaven and once again be unable to find sleep until dawn closes my eyes. It’s easier that I never knew you.
There’s something inside of me. Under my ribs, pressing.
Finally when I have reasons to go visit the Island, I can’t. Friday Daryl’s getting married and Saturday is Mishka’s birthday. I was just chatting with her on-line. We agree that it’s a very surreal thing, Darryl getting hitched. I remember when I met him, how he cried into his fluffy hair because I was involved with Lidd and not him. Why do boys always cry? We’re wondering if Lidd is in fact going to show up to the wedding. We’re wondering if he knows or if he’s alive. It seems no-one’s seen him since January or Febuary, and reports from then say he’d been turned onto meth in a bad way. Chemical addiction to add to his violent drunken rages. Such suffering in that one. I remember nights spent bruised. Sitting on the balcony, looking out over the city, I would realize my cheeks were wet. I assume the cat has died, and Sue the crazy neighbor still drinks too much tequila in front of her giant television that’s never turned off. That woman was a minor mystery, we could never figure out what it was that she did with her days. Always inside, except when she was breaking in to ply us with odd plates of snacks. We would wake up to the sound of her clearing space in our wretched kitchen. I suspect that at least once they slept together in drunken loneliness. There is no possible way they could have not. My mind can’t imagine a world that doesn’t supply the circumstances. I only hope it happened after we broke up. After I left him and the city and learned how to love.
Peekaboo was over today, looking over the apartment. That she’s also on Livejournal gave an odd perspective to it. I’ve seen her drunken pictures and she’s read my chicken scratchings. We didn’t have to sketch out some of the more basic aspects of ourselves. Some of the usual roomate interview was missing because, hey – this dyed hair stranger already knows. It’s a nice feeling. I can understand how religion must be a comforting glue. This person also. They write, they click the same buttons. I see what they do. Raise the chalice and drink my child. Not a secret society, but a community none the less. Welcome to my home.
My nails are growing longer, making typing a tiny bit more awkward. All the better to claw thin lines of red down your back. All the better to write desire. “Oh the way you make me crawl” Not, really, that I should be thinking of such things these days. Only result is keeping me from sleeping. Until circumstances make it happen. Then I roll on my tongue the secret names tattooed on my fancies. Taste in my mouth those fingertips that trace ice into flame.
Until then, architecture.