that’s between mr. future beefcakes and I.
who are dis? i don’t know what boho-chic is but i prefer to model myself along the stylings of oscar the grouch.
there’s a girl at the next table i’m watching as she cajoles the crowd. pitched just above the throb of music, her words sting then entice, punctuated every so often as she leans forward, breasts and rosebud nipples bared. open and close. open, and close; her severe slash of a mouth concealed under sticky cherry flesh and belied only by weary eyes. do the boys ever tell you if you were an ocean they would drown in you, endlessly? - if only you would let them. but she casts in the shoals, gathering endless permutations of faces, bodies and names - 30 minutes later - nothingness - as the moisture dries from silk sheets. he traces the neat half-moon indents pressed into her skin before he departs, and then save the fading warmth that becomes a spectre in it’s own right, there is no trace anyone had ever lain there.
though emptiness cannot drive away emptiness, how busy you are! ; collecting people like trinkets, sowing depthless relationships to fill holes you’re afraid to plumb the depths of in earnest. eschewing growth in that which already exists for some temporary token of gratification. you remind me of how on some mornings I wake, wanting nothing more than to sever all these memories attached to me like extra limbs, to erase myself from every place i’ve trodden underfoot. now i can’t say exactly how i’ve measured time, but always, it’s been the phone calls i never returned, the letters I neglected, tokens of love to friendship to indifference to refuse, piling endlessly in the back of my mind that haunt me. she’s a reminder that i’m gonna hold your every word, every memory like eggshells in my mouth until that indeterminable point in the future, not out of desire, but because i must. after all, even you are not aware of your importance despite - or perhaps in spite of - everything we’ve endured together. the frail beatings of that caged bird in my chest are familiar enough against your own, but do you know of its fears? that you will fade to just another face, someone for whom silences are more merciful than conversation?
I could use your words, or even the simple timbre of your voice tonight.
but i don’t know how to ask for them.