cycles, streets and opium

       It's the type of quandary I thought could be solved by putting "To Ramona" by Bob Dylan on repeat, laying on my floor smoking cigarettes while you slept in my bed and I watched your erratic dream breaths lift your chest.
         I sleep in and out, like city trains, the sound of the seemingly impossible speed of the underground thing and then the stop, the bell, the door-opening-swish, and the outside world, a new smell and a new group of people, probably sad or they look sad, which is the same thing. It's a series of flashes, too many horror stories for one space in a series of spaces in this means of transportation. I already knew I cried in my sleep, you didn't have to tell me.
         When you leave you close the door so quiet. I watch the slow turn of the handle but I think of your hand on the other side. I know your avoiding the click and the slam shut, you want me to sleep, want me to dream of you and I will, I do, when I'm not stuck in a swamp or hanging off the very top of a four-story building. I never hear that door make a sound, under the blankets my heart beats and I put a finger in my mouth. 'That is a huge bruise,' I say in my head. 
 The problem with something that satiates is you always get hungry again 
 But I am okay with that. 


4 comments:

hoist said...

Even though I clicked the little "follow" button at some point, this didn't show up in my little spoon-feed-me-update box, and for that I feel tremendously cheated.

Carolyn said...

"the problem with something that satiates is you always get hungry again."

KERRY said...

it's true.

rollerfink said...

Awesome