Reading his words, my skin feels tender to the touch. I want to be inside the mouth of his mind. I want to know how this all works, where it comes from and if I can go there, too. But he is his own and I am my own and one is not meant to be the other. If it were meant to be so, it would be. I close the pages, tuck them into my messenger bag and squint against the brightness of the sun.
I take the cigarette and drape it onto my lips. I light it and hate myself a little bit as is obligatory and suck in the warmth of this finely rolled trash. I feel smoothly euphoric for the first time in a long, long while. Things are blurry back at home the way it can get on a cold hard day in the bleak-soaked heart of December. Gloom hangs heavy, gray, and low. The bones in your jaw pierce like ice into the rest of your skull.
When you think about it, what we crave most is the end. We want to know where all this is heading and we want to know before anyone else so we can be prepared for come what may. This will never happen, of course, because there is no way to know the end before you live the impossible middle over and over again until you learn some kind of lesson or run away from learning lessons altogether so you can finally feel any single simple shred of any kind of freedom whatsoever.
Freedom is ascension. Ascension is the distance between your body and your mind, your head and your dreams. The hurt he twisted inside of you and the blood drying on the words in your veins. Soul as rose, body as thorn.
In the mornings, we try sex in different positions. Some angles feel better than others. None of them are poetry. When we fight it goes off the rails and never quite gets back on track. We are not exactly sure if we have forgiven each other our various sins or just exhausted ourselves trying. There was a time when I thought I should try to save the world until it dawned on me that the world wasn’t interested.
I spit out an ashy tasting glob of smoke and self-loathing, crush the butt into the pavement underneath my sneaker. For a wicked hot day in the dead heat of summer, my insides feel as though they are frozen snow covered hills, blinding and blinded, rolling out for miles and miles ahead.