I rub my lips with my fingers until the friction starts to really burn and become too much. I bite into the agitation and think about the taste of blood. I admire a new stem which sprouts from an old root buried deep in the rich dark earth. I read your words and select a few that turn my fantasies into physical reaction. I am a miner and a thief. I am shameless. I take everything I see.

Full moon in July: The Buck Moon. The male of the species in full-on growth mode, antlers jutting above the tall thick grasses, proudly pointed for all to see. The sinister supernatural spark in the eyes of the natural world. We train ourselves to un-see, what a nihilistic privilege. As I walk past the fields, there are three of them standing stark still, staring directly at me. Frozen in place with picturesque poise. Three bucks in a perfect row, roaming beneath the afternoon sun.

I take myself to the new hipster bar, it’s all craft cocktails, lavender infused ice cubes, homemade liquor. Organic or some shit but I like the way they pummel the actual herbs while you watch your libation take on a signature little life of its own. Give me something strong and interesting. Spirits and distilleries and the heated, aromatic subsiding of the edges which never seem to let up on their jamming me beneath my skin.

It’s a cooler afternoon than we’ve had in quite some time, a welcome relief after weeks of the oppressive kind of heat which can kill off a good time and scorch the living hell out of a pale complexion like mine. I find a burnt orange leather armchair by the open window to the street and sink myself into its buttery softness.

When I watch people, sometimes I wonder if their insides are as manic, as calculating, as curious as mine. When they smile do they mean it because so often it doesn’t look like they do. Here comes a shy looking girl with a short lace dress and long tan legs. There goes her fuckboy sliding his beard along her bare shoulder as she stirs her old fashioned. Oranges and spice and a goddamn waste of time.

I sip on my drink and drag my eyes across the full length of the hand-carved wooden bar. Remembering a thing you wrote once a while back, I pull up the notes app on my phone and type your words into the glow of my electronic memory. This life is so fleeting and so vacant. How rare it is to find even a few little bits of anything that cut through the static. Some shreds of the soul left in anything to cling tight to.

19 Replies to “Cravings”

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