by deav - 11 jun 2007
i can’t read anymore. it’s too painful. the smoke with a scent of vanilla burns my mouth and the rim of my lips. someone outside is boasting a championship. futile. it’s beautiful when the smoke goes up in perfect rings that shimmer and vanish in bluish swirls. when i blow out it’s yellowish and uglier, haze hanging beneath the lamp. it just does not linger enough and there’s no reason for another. the last sip of cool water, and the taste of vanilla remains fresh and pleasant.
i don’t want to think of it; yet the thought not thought hangs as much as the water that does not sink as fast as it should. there was rapture earlier brought by invisible hands and invisible lips on mine. i miss you so much. i write and shut my eyes.
there’s one thing i’m sure of: i have to go. through pain and disappointment. i have to go. i have to go. tic-tic. i shut my eyes.
i have to go. i boldface the i and sigh. tic-tic. i hope the answer comes with slumber. i hope i can remember. i shut my eyes.
i fill the cup again. i could have the pleasure again, easy in the cleft between my thighs in spite of myself. should i save it for when the hands are hot and the lips are real?
my hand hurts as i force the writing. i can hardly read through painful scribblings and letters erased. is it sleep, then? tic-tic. i snort but the lump in the throat brings the water back. go to bed. i fondle my knuckles dry. i drool on the page. go to bed. i shut my eyes. what i do next i don’t write.
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