Icarus's blog: "Hurts to watch."

Sam's on the edge of my bed.
Dirty floors light dusting of mites and
library musk
feels like when you press your cheek against the wall
listening to faint pin drops, waiting for a compliment
the best kind.
Wood scratches against toe callouses
cuts in better than a rude spouse at the theatre.
dirty
cracked
old
just like the mirror.
high beams, low tide, low point mid grade
high expectations.
flouride in the sink.
thick and creamy
but still frothy
freshly gargled.
fresh out of fresh.
Tile's no better.
Threshould stubs, rainmakers on the radio
coffee's in the kettle
dances alone in the kitchen
making sweet standing love to a figment.
Dawn cheated today
with no post-sex pee
or stale cigarette and scarred arms wrapped
when the colors died
and the blankets fell
and the harbingers cried
dead leaves come to clatter
clicking
ticking
time
too cold this morning anyway
but we never go out any more...
not for sunrises
not for blinking stars or winking moons
not for breakfast at 3 and a big lengthy nothing.
Kettle screams.
Forgot what to daydream about.
Forgot how to be anyone but this.