The time has eaten much. She has bitten off and swallowed Erinnerungsbröckchen before she fell asleep satisfied burping. What is left is a stinking hole cheese on bread. And I did. Even if I do not know who that is.
There are days when I can remember. The taste of cranberries. The smell of young full-moon nights. The chords of 'Get It While You Can'. And the sunrise in Frisco.
We lay on the hood of Chevys. We touched us not. Not with your hands. The hiss as the sun broke out of the bay. Cinnabar red iron. And your eyes. Tri-color. Gray, green and brown. Flowing into each other Saturn rings clung to the black hole of your pupil. And I was absorbed.
are in my fridge a carton of milk, half a bar of milk chocolate and a pair of my tennis socks next to the Saturday newspaper. I put the letter from the insurance company in the large vegetable drawer and close the door. My stomach growls.
Did you know that most people in her bed ? Die Lie down, close my eyes and not wake up. A beautiful death is called then. I will not die Sun I will resign with a bang. And if it's just a final fart. I have to buy bulbs.
It is raining. Of course, the sky ripped me. But he can tell me, I will not go back in and kleinbeigeben. Never again. I stroll to the corner shop on the corner and take a bag of onions from the display rack outside the front door. Two blocks and five threads of thought later, I throw it in a dumpster. The clouds rub against the telephone pole. It roars and crackles, and empty. My eyes burn, but I do not know if I cry. In the gutter
I lie, only much older. Head on one arm, the other a bottle of brown booze. I want to pull the bottle from his hand and bend down over my body. Old me awake and sees me behind the reddened eyes. I realize I'm reaching out and the bottle. Spill something on my finger. It smells of yesterday. To forget. I make a fist and hit me in the face. Again and again. Blood and whiskey.
On the wall is a woman. Your face looks like winter at sea. She sings 'Summertime' ... and the living is easy ... shit. I'm staring at the scarred skin of my hands. Counting my fingers. The windows of the houses. My heart beat.
Then I'll be at your doorstep. Water drops on my nose. To buy my Nikes in a puddle and I mess around a bit in it. As when we fled before the downpour. I was scared that the lightning strikes and we roast, with all the straw and the cows. Burger special, you said, that would be something. Then you closed your eyes and inhale the stroke of thunder. The steel sides of my guitar cut in my finger tips and reminded me that I live.
You open the door and take my hand. It feels like coming home. You look in his eyes. You did it, you say no, I say, and now I know it really tears.
you dry my hair with a red towel and kisses my forehead. We look to an old live recording. This recording is shit. The soundtrack of a thunderstorm noise. My guitar laughs at me. I snuggle into your elbow and close my eyes. A horse gallops
by my right ear and throws himself with full force against the ear drum. My head is vibrating. I try the applied stallion with a shake of the head to carry out. No chance. He takes off and drives back towards his goal. If he does so, he manages to tonight determined to break through the wall and penetrate into my brain. I wonder what he intended it. Although this may be unimportant. I counted his starts and the impact vibrations. We at 58th I'm tired. I can not sleep.
Yesterday I dreamed I had cancer. Incurable. Metastases in all organs. Maybe two months and over. Liver, kidney, lung, all in the bucket. And the heart. From ingestion of small black corridors that lead nowhere but into the darkness. Black, dark black, nothing else. It has not bother me to die. And I was not afraid of the dark. But I was scared. Afraid to tell you can not, how it feels to be dead.
© 2009 Simone wedge
