it’s a waiting game, it’s all the same. i’m unmovable, restless in the night; wrestling with the bedcovers, conjuring up a sight. on the end, you. at my door, you. by my desk, you. like a silhouette against my aching chest i feel you beat. an overworked heart, wallowing in defeat. it’s cruel to feel it all the time, to reach for something tasteless and senseless and motionless through time and space. (i am writhing through grit teeth) . it’s a cruelty that i long for, that wakes me up and tires me to sleepless sleep. it’s a ache upon ache upon ache, the hacker of my heart, the pirate of my dreams. the perfect devourer, ‘you’re perfect’, you.
i can count the distance on both hands, fingers winding me up, turning the cogs.s. fingers clapping, slapping my palms and arms waving to no one in particular. i devise a plan, an occupation for my anticipation. an attempt at precipitation, detracting from any lamentation. i use words like a merry-go-round that just go round-and-round-and-round-
-i-avoid-all-meaning-meaningless-sounds-sound-so-much-better-to-my-stupid-ears-if-i-can’t-have-your-voice-i-want-silence-if-i-can’t-write-to-you-i-am-wordless-if-i-can’t-touch-your-skin-i-am-senseless-i-am-half-a-human-til-you’re-whole-i-avoid-all-meaning…
that’s for you.
Show me a heroin and I’ll write you her death. Because with these, these meager, mild diary entries, they do not appease. If it’s mutton dressed as lamb, if it’s the devil in a Sunday hat, if it’s punching above those weights, let it say. Let it be, be, let it be. I was going to write an autumnal ode, leaves like silent, fiery clusters tapping your blades. Colours of the eyes of darker beauties on the morning train, all liquid, dripping gold. I was going to write on the gentle ache of fatigue casting her spell, caressing your bones, the volume rousing you from sleep. I was going to write, going to go, going to say. Then i see. Nothing.
