fucktastic.

.






current listen: even though i can't say-- second moon
current read: this side of paradise-- fitzgerald


it's the new year, babe--






bring it to me, 2008, as if you're fucking scared out of your wits.
(whatever "it" is.)


la poème:
*untitled, as of yet, and still not finalized--


I.
Unnatural rain and
thoughts of the edges
of a worn, blue book
rest between
you and
me
gathered up in the folds
of cheap grey cotton,
brushing against your skin
every time you move.
You're dreaming.

My heart isn't in this.

Is your body--
is my--
are our bodies
our bodies...

The view from my window back home
is not the view from yours--
the lights of the city are arranged differently
and lit by a different god.

II.
You're not like me;
you sleep deeply and move too much.
A breeze passed the gaping window
and slid across the nape of my neck
as I dressed,
rough fabric cold on my waist,
breathing harsh.

I didn't even spare you a look,

only bit my tongue, tasting
hard resolve and blood
and you.

III.
The light of the corridor,
the stench of the thin walls,
and the heartless pattern
of the carpet
condemned me
as the door clapped shut
with a small, pitiless noise.

I blinked once,
still fingering the cold doorknob.

IV.
Do you remember
the novel I gave you, how I explained why
it was my favorite book
and how I had felt you in its pages
when I read it
for the first time?

To me,
you were that book.
You were my name
and purpose.

But fire burns when
gripped too tightly,
and too much tension
breaks the string,
releases the music, stopping the song
and tainting the memory
of the musician.





.