i understand now what i am much too proud to mention
2003-12-28 & 11:40 p.m.

sitting in worn red chairs, perhaps saved by someone with an affinity for idealistic reading chairs. perhaps the person who saved that chair loved anna akhmatova as much as i do, who gulps hot chocolate instead of sipping it, who insists on eating berry fruit salads in the dead of winter. each hole in the chair is a lover of mine, and i burrow my feet in further, losing myself in soft layers and wild dreams.

there is something called mimosa in the elegant glass someone has placed in the fingers that absently do not understand what they are doing, feeding continued disintegration to a mouth that is too tired to say no.

when i talk to you, i feign transition. it is a discourse of far-away places and dreams that coincide. i do not tell you that instead of sleeping, i drive into the night, instead of bouncing on the fluff that used to be synonymous with vacation, my eyes know nothing but the swelling of tears. if i believed in passive voice catastrophes, perhaps my apathy would not be stripping away the layers of my stomach.