He asks what it is and I say nothing. He says he knows it isn't and sits staring in the dark like he can really see my expressionless face. I know he says what he says out of habit and not out of translucence and I sigh again. I adjust my top and bottom as a reaction to the premature assumptions and I wish he would go away. He says I am something else, and I smile forgetting he can't hardly see me. So, I say thanks, roll over in the carpet, and I keep wishing.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
whispering, second person stories (you-ish)
Leaning in; whispering. My tongue flicks against the back of my two front teeth and it's contact pops off the roof of my mouth. My mouth clicks and hisses with spit and teeth and I think about how close we are. Suddenly I become less aware of what we are saying and more aware of how it sounds. You stare at my mouth like it is already yours to kiss, and you haven't yet. I could be thinking about Milk Duds for all you know. But you stare pensively and without regret (or much other thought, for that matter). I don't like you yet. So I sit relishing your attention unknowingly. Weakened by stress and the volume I have consumed, probably. I think about how empty I am and how you serve me no purpose other than these futile, irrelevant awarenesses. I close my eyes and let you kiss me. I let out an addressless sigh that saunters about in the darkness waiting for an ear.