When I woke up this morning swollen faced and worry hearted, lazily I pulled the covers over my head, the way you do in the late afternoon when you are trying to get me to come back to sleep with you. Under there, away from the brightness of the day and all of the birds busily chatting, I could smell you, cinnamon and sweat. Sometimes leftover vodka or whiskey morning breath, cinnamon and sweat. And I wanted you, instantly. I start salivating, dampening, wriggling and writhing in the sheets even though you tell me, "Fuck the sheet." I cannot resist the thought of you arguing vehemently with your professor, a stranger, my friends, me. Challenging and brooding when you lose at darts, a drunken smile and too much weight leaning on my body, so tiny in comparison to your height. I want to be the cigarette between your long fingers, sticking to your top lip as you inhale, I want to be breathed into your lungs. I long to be the vodka sliding down the back of...
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Someone else's home
What the hell was I wanting to write the other night in bed? I was hearing things, music in my ears, making up drum beats with my eyes closed, words were spilling from the sides of my thoughts. "Maybe the noise is coming from outside," I hoped, realizing once and for all maybe I am delusional. Something about the moon; Setting as an upturned crescent, large, golden, glowing low in the midnight skies over the Gulf of Mexico, collecting snow like a tea cup. Freezing, killing, coming full circle on the fourteenth of the month. Would it be appropriate to call this irony, Adam? I know you've explained it many times, it is wet and does not stick like I'd wish Maybe I should wear my nightgown inside out or not at all. Not in a strangers sheet, though they may be washed and dried at the laundromat on Central and 28th. A man came in while I was reading, questioned me for quarters, starred at my thighs crossed over one another on the plastic seat until I ...