The morning after, we woke up late. I was dreaming of a fat green river wound sluggishly through a jungle cobwebbed with vines and hidden meaning. I opened my eyes, but the room was crushingly bare; bereft of anything that might interest me. Picking at lint on a black t-shirt was how the thoughts seemed to feel. But then again, the bed was full of holes, and I couldn't help but fall deeply down whenever I threw myself upon it. And there was also you. But for some reason, that just didn't enter into the equation. So I got up and lit a cigarette, sat on my front stairs and made wagers with myself as to whether the post had been delivered. I entertained these silly notions because I could no longer handle the pressing weight of Dreadful Wrong threatening to unravel the core of me. Where is there to go but down in a life spent on a waterslide? I heard you get out of bed not long after and figured you must have noticed my absence. You joined me on the steps, all squinty eyed and pretty with your hair falling about your face. It's the secret moments of love which dare be this way, those precious memories slid into your senses when you think you could do better, you could do no wrong. You asked what I was thinking and so I said,
'I was writing a story in my head about a boy who carves a kingdom for himself inside a cloud.'
You laughed and said you wanted to read it and I very nearly left because it was such bullshit and I wanted you to know it. At times like these I know I am dying. Part of me longs to accept it, but that stupid, stubborn sense of self which clings to life will fight me hard against the bare earth to let it go. I peered at you closely because it felt like I couldn't see you, even though you were quite obviously there. But it wasn't my eyes that were lacking, it was my heart. Although you sat near me with your leg pressed against my shoulder, although your warmth was heating me and although I stroked your skin, I just couldn't feel you inside of me, and so I had to wonder whether you were really there at all. Was nothing there but a vague sense of selfishness undefined as that invisble other from which I constantly begged acceptance? Perhaps it was just the sluggish remains of the dream picking at my weary life. Perhaps it was the sluggish remains of a life waiting to be dreamt.
'I was writing a story in my head about a boy who carves a kingdom for himself inside a cloud.'
You laughed and said you wanted to read it and I very nearly left because it was such bullshit and I wanted you to know it. At times like these I know I am dying. Part of me longs to accept it, but that stupid, stubborn sense of self which clings to life will fight me hard against the bare earth to let it go. I peered at you closely because it felt like I couldn't see you, even though you were quite obviously there. But it wasn't my eyes that were lacking, it was my heart. Although you sat near me with your leg pressed against my shoulder, although your warmth was heating me and although I stroked your skin, I just couldn't feel you inside of me, and so I had to wonder whether you were really there at all. Was nothing there but a vague sense of selfishness undefined as that invisble other from which I constantly begged acceptance? Perhaps it was just the sluggish remains of the dream picking at my weary life. Perhaps it was the sluggish remains of a life waiting to be dreamt.