I smell like sex and nicotine again.
How did that happen?
It's too cold to be doing this.
Shirtless sweatpants
lit and moonless
but not in the good way.
The sky is strangled by another onset of storming ice and bitter overbearing wind.
There'll be no sun
no crystal skies
probably for some time.
Cest la vie in this little corner of hell.
I run a hand through moppy tangled hair still a little damp from the shower.
I'm too busy thinking about how to take my queen
how to find a new castle
if I'll ever claw out of this stalemate.
Too busy to be cold.
Too tense to be me.
A dancing puff
not sure if its breath or smoke
and there she is again
popping my lid and gently around my neck.
I wish she'd just hurry up and fall for me.
Then I could feel justified in all this
instead of wallowing like some despierto.
Instead of feeling like a pen with no well.
The night's catching up with me
so is the cold.
Another dry sigh and I'm back inside
contemplating yet another flickering computer screen
yet another empty evening with the increasing sense of purpose behind each keystroke.
But I'll probably wind back up trapsing through another fantasy
where the air is warm, and the kisses are wet
and before long I'll have broken a record
guiness will call and say I treat myself so often
it should be recorded as some form of homo-eroticism.
And yes, I wrote that without my shirt on.
I guess that's how these little diversions sometimes become little deaths.
It starts off as a passing fancy
to a question of: why not?
Before long its a fullblown obsession
nah
that word's vulgar
let's try worship.
Something sanctimonious yet pure about it.
Cut- print- that's a wrap.
I set out to talk to myself
wound up just listening instead.
It'll all be clearer when the sky breaks again.
