two thirty am
you think of bad lines. don’t tell me you don’t.
why don’t you come over here and forget about that? …don’t take life so hard and bury yourself down. get on the bus, lets go somewhere. do you feel tense around the throat where you want to touch it, but your arm won’t quite bend. i’m not in pain.
I watch the way you twitch when I touch your things. as if contaminating them. with my poor, filthy, fingers that have done nothing worthwhile. it’s true. i haven’t.
you think of bad lines. sped out and drawn crooked. you tremble with anger when you don’t think I notice. little things. aggrivations. irritations. i don’t know how to goddamn tell a specific incident when all i can remember are feelings that aren’t really there. examples wasted into thin air. frenzied into my body curled up in the fetal position you are burried in my skin and blanket.
what do i do? when things are too delicate to touch?
sitting out here makes my pride and stubbornness flare. it’s late. two forty five. monday. morning. with the crickets and the slow chiming clock. ship bell. that’s been pounding ever so quietly into the back of my ears. time to go to bed.