Blog 368- On Drowning Tigers

Even if I came over right now and knocked down your door and ripped off your clothes and did you right there on the floor until you bled and I'd finished I'd roll over sweaty and still miserable. Groaning. She speaks and the wind roared across a rant of graves. She sleeps like an infant, burning and freezing and shreiking and she doesn't even know any of it.

She sleeps when she speaks to me now.
She speaks in my head.
Sometimes

I walk through your old turf awash in the past. My how you have moved on, climbed out, always teetering on the verge of some torrential meltdown that you'd rain down on me. You moved fast, like a heavy summer cloud and I think back. You were always silver-paced, a regular Diana the huntress, never really wanting in, but pleased to toy with the invitations.
No clocks on any walls I see. My shoes are an anathema metronome. Tapping the little shiver of the poor here close to the wood and liquid fire. Oily walls dripping with acetylenic paranoia. I rub my eyes. This is a bar. These are my thoughts. Dredging them out like crystalline scimitars in a swampy sludge. Every time I find one it cuts me.

Shoot.
Shot.
She

rings against my ear asking where I'm going.
" I'll flock to the darkest place. "
"Will you at least try to keep warm?"
" No, it's as cold as they get. "

How close can you really get to a person? So close they live in you and you cease to exist? A puppet loves their lover's hand up their ass. At least I can smile. People pass like gadflies and there exists in each of them a little unreachable soul and in that I find solace. How can I empathize with everyone and still go unnoticed... still not exist?
The wind off the great bay suppresses. As if all eternity were condensed against me, a tiny illuminate yellowed scrap on the ground, just trying to breathe. Sleepdriving. Drowsy feet. I've seen too much. I've felt too much. Now I lay me. Now I lay me. Now I lay me.