samedi, décembre 29, 2012

The Aftermath



Maybe third time's the charm?  This second one was lukewarm water, in a sea of floating debris.  It reminded me so much of the first time, the musty smell of dried sweat, the cramped space, the humble juvenile beginnings.  I somehow feel open to you while still retaining my real identity, the one where I'm friends with your professor.

I am good with detachment, but was difficult to concentrate with all the flotsam and jetsam from the surroundings, the objects that litter the top bunker, the wet towels and blankets, the pink and purple wrapping paper made into the door's wallpaper, the brown carton attached to the wall and made like a cork board  the periwinkle cartolina stapled on the ceiling to hide the water stains, the yellow spray paint on the walls that made it look like a cheap circus booth.  And the shared toilet was g-h-a-s-t-l-y.

Your mother was right.  Thankfully you'd be moving to your own unit soon.   

lundi, décembre 24, 2012

Christmas



605 Oxford
I know what I am getting into, and I willingly submit to it; please, don't call me "babe" because we both know this game you're playing.  Before christmas, I find myself in your serviced condo, on your bed, eating fastfood.  Your place is clean and does not have that damp smell.  You have expensive taste, born of a rich gambling family in the north I suppose.  I am distracted by your comb-over, especially when I see it from the back.  You are cuddly and decent, which is nice, but a little too bear-ish.  I can't believe you'd break my barrier.  It is swift and painless and I feel detached.  Afterwards, I sleep like a log, still ready to be brought to flame.  I wake up to electronic devices, beeping one after another;  phone calls about your christmas party and your bossy tone.

You were still playing games, holding my hand as you drove, reminding me to text.  Yes?