the week ticks; the days melt; and a feeling of impatience permeates every grain that falls through my mind's rusted hourglass. it's as if, with my own dreams, i've returned to the beaches of that mythical place, where there is no sand to rush through my fingertips, nothing outside of my control, an unknown place made into a home. the rocks on that far-off beach are as cold now in december as my heart, and hers, and hers, and hers. is life but a rotating door of short-lived half-hearted happiness, with a nightcap of heartbreak on the rocks; the return of bliss and an icy reprieve, ad infinitum?
i walked around my neighborhood to have a cigarette today and i saw absolutely no one.
my heart in portland, my skin in texas, my mouth in england, and my eyes in huntsville. this is no way to live, broken. i need my heart back. my skin is cold. my mouth is tired. my eyes ache, weighty with tears. my speakers blare songs of no consequence, the television which i had forgotten for so long dulls my emotion. i miss knowing anything. i forget how it feels to feel whole. i fear that life will never be what it use to be.
it could get better, though. but who exactly am i supposed to fuck until then?
on second thought, it probably won't get better. fuck until then.
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