I want coffee - So I brew.
The maker grumbles, spurts, and coughs like a sick animal plodding along in some autumnal migration until the mechanism finally gives out with a steam-filled wheeze. All of these applicances were bought to match the white of the tile, but all it really does is make the darkness of the coffee seem deeper than actual.
Rolling clouds and tiny white hail, separate spoons overturning the ocean, sifting the bottom and ringing the sides. What once was empty is poured to black, until I add the things I feel are missing
It's no secret that everything reminds. There's no escape from the you that's in me, or the me that finds himself longing in the middle of the night. In these fine spaces between too much time together and the wishing that we had never come apart. Like the colors that fill and stain the grout between the tiles on the counter, they stay behind the sponge when it sweeps left to right, dead to rights, down the drain.
For everything that I've stepped out of myself to try to create, for every string of blue lights I've stapled to the walls of my restoration there has been something else that I'm not expecting or anywhere ready to deal with. These emotional inevitables, these seemingly happenstance episodes that don't always seem to hold up to the light of the next day, but won't be denied when the moment is in the mirror.
And so I get angry. And then I get sad, followed by freaked out and lonely. I buy bottles to drown myself in, and new clothes to hide behind. I answer the calls I don't expect, I tap numbers into letters that I hope don't make me sound desperate, and I sing Depeche Mode out loud - much to the confusion of a jealous and possessive kitten who turns around twice before curling up to sleep on the hat you bought me to apologize for that retarded fight we had about Poison.
I look around the room in disbelief, knowing that I've probably left it on the counter.
Last night I called you. Last night you answered me. In the end it was the same answer to the same question I always ask, except that it was totally different this time (if that makes any sense at all). The echoes left me with questions and confusion, as I'm sure it did for you.
Not wanting to sleep, I touched old photographs of your hand on mine and my lips on yours. Right or wrong, the drink warmed me inside, stunted my growth, and kept me awake until my skin flushed red and I spilled it all over the floor.
The maker grumbles, spurts, and coughs like a sick animal plodding along in some autumnal migration until the mechanism finally gives out with a steam-filled wheeze. All of these applicances were bought to match the white of the tile, but all it really does is make the darkness of the coffee seem deeper than actual.
I want texture
- So I stir.
- So I stir.
Rolling clouds and tiny white hail, separate spoons overturning the ocean, sifting the bottom and ringing the sides. What once was empty is poured to black, until I add the things I feel are missing
...and then it looks like you.How many years ago did I write that line -- the one that seemed so simple and pure, the one that refreshes it's own memory every morning whether I want it to or not?
It's no secret that everything reminds. There's no escape from the you that's in me, or the me that finds himself longing in the middle of the night. In these fine spaces between too much time together and the wishing that we had never come apart. Like the colors that fill and stain the grout between the tiles on the counter, they stay behind the sponge when it sweeps left to right, dead to rights, down the drain.
Addicted to the bitter
- I pour it over again.
- I pour it over again.
For everything that I've stepped out of myself to try to create, for every string of blue lights I've stapled to the walls of my restoration there has been something else that I'm not expecting or anywhere ready to deal with. These emotional inevitables, these seemingly happenstance episodes that don't always seem to hold up to the light of the next day, but won't be denied when the moment is in the mirror.
And so I get angry. And then I get sad, followed by freaked out and lonely. I buy bottles to drown myself in, and new clothes to hide behind. I answer the calls I don't expect, I tap numbers into letters that I hope don't make me sound desperate, and I sing Depeche Mode out loud - much to the confusion of a jealous and possessive kitten who turns around twice before curling up to sleep on the hat you bought me to apologize for that retarded fight we had about Poison.
I want coffee
- so I
- so I
..Wait, where is my coffee?Have you ever done that? Am I the only one? I spend all this time thinking about it and putting my time and effort into something, but when I actually sit down to enjoy it it's nowhere to be found.
I look around the room in disbelief, knowing that I've probably left it on the counter.
Last night I called you. Last night you answered me. In the end it was the same answer to the same question I always ask, except that it was totally different this time (if that makes any sense at all). The echoes left me with questions and confusion, as I'm sure it did for you.
Not wanting to sleep, I touched old photographs of your hand on mine and my lips on yours. Right or wrong, the drink warmed me inside, stunted my growth, and kept me awake until my skin flushed red and I spilled it all over the floor.
Here is a plea from my heart to you
Nobody knows me as well as you do
You know how hard it is for me
to shake the disease
That takes a hold of...
[Listening to: Garbage, "Run Baby Run"]
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