this city is not my home:

she wipes the finality from her sores, sticks her finger in the corner of her right eye and says, "hey what fucking day is it?"

tuesday, you gonna make it?

"hmmph... i want a ciggarette, what'd you do with the razors? how long have you been awake?

all night, is what i tell her. she hugs my arm, the sweetness as she blinks and looks at me wide-eyed like a lost child makes it more adoration than love. this is my favorite part.

her eye shadow looks like rotting teeth, she might look pretty if she could stand. staring ito the rafters, hair like rainbows across the floor, her small frame fighting gravity.

"i left this place for a reason", she says.

i have given up on you.

you are not a well lighted place, you are not home to me.

to know me, it's always wrong:

when you haven't called, i usually dance with the shades down. usually badly but i try to keep up because you're so damn good at it.  moving with a silhouette, walking on the feet of my shadow pretending like i step in count with you.  slowly dancing with an apparition i can feel her lengthy dress brush against the top of my feet, and when i look up she licks her teeth. they glisten in the low light and i watch the blood collect in the corners of her mouth.  i smoke a cigarette and pretend to be forgiven and it is then that things begin to get strange.

her tanned thighs move slowly together, i smell the way she feels good.  she paints the floor with flesh and steel strings intent on admiring the destination of those pieces.  as i collapse to the cool tile beneath me, i understand for a blue-eyed moment what i have been trying to blindly accomplish.  i pace for miles like a statue, and i just fail.

her hip bones are sharp yet comfortable between muscles. when i kiss her bellybutton it's then i realize she hasn't eaten in weeks.

695:

i might be there soon,
i might not.

i have been distracted by a lack of friends
"how are ya sweetheart?"
thats what i practice saying to her
every time i'm almost alone.

[blank]

it's getting late but i'll be around
until it's over.

low tide, open wound:

drawn back exposing the never seen tender fault line skin and muscle removed from shoulder earthen not fatal awaiting purges in anesthetic hurt stolen with an accepted choir of see-me-throught-this and things will bless our wrongs and swell to the bottom of the surgical incision placed upon the favors bestowed by other medicines and care will be given not taken while in exile from craters none can see aside and between corrective surgery to seal our lips and minds with a misunderstood grace that balances haphazardly in the hands we no longer have.

tears shall well to right all wrongs, the ocean it happily overcorrects.