three hundred and eighteen

On average… 318 pages of my blog get read every day since starting back in September. WORD.

My head seems attached better than last week… healthy doses of writing and editing are happening at the moment… here are some tastes.

an unsought massage from an unlicensed therapist

i used to think
i did it to feel like you.
to feel you in that way.
that way
i felt
panting inside 2am.
your apartment corridor.
dirty green carpets.
open door.
… we went inside.
where you played
classical music
on a cheap clock radio.
bedside table.
where the medicine
i pretended not to notice
rested. see
arms around me.
i never stay
longer than
you drifting away.
slipping out quiet.
cold hands in columbus square.
won’t stop shaking even
wrapped around a third black coffee.
fingering a shaky cigarette.
my skeleton bones.
distraction from
the leather scent
you left

exposure (a love story)

You didn’t mean to spill your drink, saturating him with your splashed insecurities. You feel even worse because of it. But he tells you it’s too late. It’s already seeped through. He’s uncomfortable.

You mumble fumbled apologies and tell him you don’t want to go. Back to a bed. Where you’ll open your eyes in a few hours. Wearing his clothes. Wanting to say you feel better. When you know that isn’t true.

He knows what’s best. You try to keep your head up though your eyes are cast down. And your heart is on the ground. You sit silently on the train platform. His pants have dried off, you’re left wearing a stain.

An ungranted wish leaves you lying awake in the 4am silence with a hazy head and heavy mind. You try to count your top ten take-backs and begin to tally too-bad about thats. You hear breathing beside you and want to be touched. It’s an unspeakable desire.

Like wanting to say ‘I’m sorry.’

Like hoping there will never be another glass to spill.

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