Saturday, December 27, 2014

why men prefer to go to the liquor store or; why some men almost seem determined to go crazy

Drip. Faucet. Goes drip. Wake up on the next torturous splash to a stranger in your bed. She rolls in toward your hairy body and the blankets and the temperature increase and she kisses you with warm sour angel morning lips on your surprisingly fluent mouth. And you two had been facing the same general direction - sleeping toward your bookcase and the succulent plant on top of it with crumpled receipts and fragmented ideas and lines scratched into them with pen and the red and the black backpack on the floor with scattered remnants of hours ago worn clothes now cold uninhabited - but now warm she has shown you her sleepy eyes and hidden her communicative spine in exchange for that warm kiss which turns into kissing on one another and piercing into one another for several not insignificant widening angles of the sun across the eastern window and through the headboard window onto perpendicular walls in this bedroom. And you wonder who she is but not aloud.