He says, Each time I see you you’re more beautiful. I can do nothing but stare blankly at your lips when such statements tastelessly pour from them, force a tired smile and thank you for your complete disregard. I no longer roll white beauty in your presence, I am no longer mesmerized by the filth that surrounds your life. Your mouth has lost its ability to mold itself into deceivingly genuine shapes, your loss is my gain. I am strangely triumphant in claiming a false victory when the words I deliver to your stained flesh do everything but penetrate, your eyes are far too displaced, your tongue can no longer identify the sweetness of death swallowed whole. You can touch my hair all you want and sew our mouths together with lace and beads but I’m not staying for you, I won’t budge for even the sharpest needle. Keep blowing rings into the dense blackness, observe how everything is mixing and swirling like fluids in a capped cylinder. I’ll just close my eyes and feel the blow tickling the hair that bends upward from widened pupils, hair that brushes my bare shoulder every now and then like a leaf on a helpless journey across cement walls, broken fences and burned rooftops.
Now I’m back, 70 miles east, overcome with the sweetest lull that seems to put my body at peace and drain energy from my every pore in just the right proportions. This is a period of less noise, I’m standing above my body and being carried by the wind in smooth circles around a room that knows nothing yet of my life. There are words to be read, faces to be consoled, secrets to be exchanged, and you’re looking in all the wrong places for a girl to love you back. You’ll wash her soft skin with the blood from your torn veins in the hopes of waking her from the deepest slumber, place savage mixes upon her ears, salts upon her face, petals between her red lips that shamelessly beckon to yours. She is rolling the tips of her blue fingers across the slow waves you have planted in her mind, arching her back as she lays in a broth of your stagnant disregard, breathing deeply the air muffled by belated apologies and stale regret. I’ll gently place the bouquet of blossoming youth upon the stone that marks the complete illusion your life was, the fantasy that I swallowed so desperately, the cloud of languor your existence rained upon my broken skull, and I’ll finally walk away.
