mentalcat

It's Suicide Tuesday for the last time and our voices are drowning in the beat of holy souls and too much cigarette smoke. I see your face across the room and I can't decide whether I'm madly in love or scared for my life. You carry that certain sense of beautiful, stabbing saddness in your eyes and I feel like I should say something but everything I can think of is wildly inappropriate at its best. I burry my face in the salt tasting wine I'm pretending to enjoy and drown every feeling of you and me and the past and the present. Our paths haven't crossed in so long that I've almost forgot the way your upper lip curves when you smile and suddenly you're everywhere again. I leave the imaginary place in my mind, a kind of smokey lounge filled with a random collection of faces I've talked to since 1992. I walk down a street that reminds me of a place where I once lived and I think of nothing nothing nothing because everything is you today. I wake up from my dream because the unconscious is a dangerous place. I sit down and write a blog post in shitty english because english is your language and not mine. I skim through the letters and remember how much you hated everything I wrote, said, did, loved. That's why I'm here and you're there. That and many other reasons.