Whitecaps

I sat by my window looking at the sky. I brought my hands forward, pulled into a kiss. Moments before, a peek, eyes closed, hands taut. That touch, glowing and pale, watchful and soft; my eyes trace a billowed curtain hanging from the windowpane. I turn off the lights and see your form from under the covers, lighting the corners of my face with pinpricks of light. A turn, soft. A touch, light. A breath, snug. A word spoken evaporates into an endless embrace. I sat by my window looking at you.

I sat by my window looking at you. You stood across the room, an outline wreathed in darkness, a curve beset by shadows, radiant in defiance. I saw your face, barely feature, hidden grace. But I could not take my eyes away from you. I traced a line across the sky, hoping I'd find your bed, hills quiet, sleeping. Upon your shoulder, moon, an atmospheric embrace. I gaze forward, and sideways, at once. Looking back, lonely room, lonely chair, only one. Moon, why are you here? Why take life into your furrowed brow, when life below lives between curtains, between sheets? A quiet nod, a slow return, between a blanket, a warm heart beats. Felt through the back, a dull thud-thud-thud. An arm drapes over the moon, felt from the front, a quiet thud-thud-thud. I pull closer, my lap between the sheets, your head, quiet, golden. I sat by my window looking at the stars.

I sat by my window looking at the stars. One-two. Clouds coddle cooly lit skies, casting shadows across sleeping eyes, lidded by slow whispers. Lonely traveller, traced across my view, must I touch you to find where you are? A prick, pins and needles, a shift towards a quiet back. Save for breath, twinkling, a spot of heart. I lay on my back, a blanket pins the world above me, an awning, catching the worst of winter's rain. Drops fall down, splash between slinking clouds. Umbrella, sheathed, raindrops on the windshield are stars late at night. I can only look at one star at a time, eyes tire from overexposure. But then for an instant, all taken as one, eyes blinded, beauty envelops my windowpane. Your reflection, eyes stars, moon, a dazzling display. Snug, between my arms, blanket skies. Moon when did you shatter into a million stars? Are they of you, or you of they? Gathered, bunches, Milky Way. I sat by my window looking at the sky.

You saw me sky, and I saw you . Graceful bareness, naked line. A moment frozen in memory, a star, frozen in time.

Cold Milk

I've been keeping a deck of cards by my desk the last few days. A deck of red cards and a deck of blue cards. They make quite the stack. I sometimes go through them, flipping each card over, one at a time. It's comforting knowing that the next card will be different, that I have no control. There's two cards missing from the red deck, a fact I frequently forget. Every once in a while I'll notice it and sit for a second, just trying to remember where I lost it. I never can, and frankly, it's quite frustrating. But that's what it's all about I guess, you can never remember where you lost it, just the fact that it's gone. I don't mind it, but the deck's never complete. Same with the blue deck, although it's missing different cards. People have told me it's pointless to play with an incomplete deck, much less two incomplete decks. I think that's a silly thing to say. I shuffle the two decks together ever now and then, blue and red. Once they're shuffled together, I can never tell which cards are missing, the red takes up the blue's loss and the blue takes up the red's. However, I never keep the decks together for very long, taking time to separate them fully into two piles. Sometimes I even order the decks, but it's all too organized. Even so, shuffling them is my favorite part. Separate piles fall onto each other, random order builds a deck. But the best is the shuffling of the two decks. It feels complete, two things coming together. All together now, oil and water. A complete deck?

Too bad I can never finish Solitaire.

Stuck-o

Someone told me the other day, "Man, I've got to let some of my walls down, I just gotta let people in." I don't get it. What are these walls people talk about? They're everywhere, apparently, in movies, on TV, in my friend's relationships and in mine. I have walls. Yes walls. I don't remember putting up the framing anywhere though, so they must be pretty flimsy. But yet, they exist and I have to consciously let people in. Or so people tell me. I have a feeling it's just a sort of collective cliche, something Friends or Melrose Place invented to screw up relationships. Now the guy down the hall is telling me he needs to "Let his girlfriend in?" I don't get it, walls are supposed to keep people out, it seems pretty counter-productive to build walls just to bring them down. I think the word everyone's looking for is drawbridge. Yeah, drawbridge, where you can let people in or keep them out and drop hot oil on them. Problem (that never existed) solved. But then again "I need to let down my drawbridge" sounds oddly sexual. Hmm, maybe door. "Baby can you open your door for me?" Ah forget it. It's all stupid in it's own stupid way. I feel bad for that guy, it's like suffering from a disease that doesn't exist but he's convinced himself he's caught. What happened to being in a normal relationship? And an unwalled one at that. Sometimes I feel I'm on the outside looking in; everyone's so caught up in everybody else that they forget who they are.

Talk about putting up walls.

Breaststroke

I still remember the first time I held your hand. It was a Sunday. Dawn. We had just met at the harbor. The waves were crashing against the jetty and the air was thick with spray and salt. It was bitterly cold, it had been a very cold December. But you hadn't even brought a coat. So I gave you my flannel. I remember letting you wear even when I had goosebumps from head to toe. To this day my clothes look better on you. We both stood there quiet and together while the sea churned below us. Standing in that morning mist, I found the boundary between myself and the world. I turned to look at you, eager to tell you of my revelations, I had just seen the world. I looked to you and it was lost. The wind snatched it from my arms, for I had stolen what was not mine. But suddenly, I had more than ever before. You were there and everywhere, a shape unknown. I looked into your eyes, brown, green, blue. Just like the sea. Just like the sea. I had always been afraid of the ocean. I still am. I told you something I don't remember even now. It didn't matter. The sun had risen, the first leg of its swim begun. We were together standing with the wind in our eyes and the sun on our ears. I knew I had found you, my flannel flapped in the breeze. I asked if you were cold. The sea thundered, then splashed, clapped, then receded. I don't think you ever replied, but I knew. The world was in front of us, dawn a feeling. I counted - one, two, three. I grabbed your hand. Spray clipped the sky. I held you for a moment, fingers traced lives. I didn't need my flannel anymore, I wasn't cold anymore. I wasn't alone anymore. I jumped.

Wandering

I feel like I should be writing something. Something with words that expresses something I feel. Something with something so that something is something.

Something. A loaded word, something. Endlessly changing to fit the situation. But something must live a lonely life. Something never has a residence besides someplace. Or a love for that matter, just someone. Someone. I think someone is worse than something, they're just a blank canvas that no one can appreciate. Everybody just loves that damn artist though. Hey someone, I like you. I think you're beautiful just as a placeholder and not with paint all over you. Would you like to talk about something someone? Or if you're tired of something, we could talk about everything. When? I don't know sometime? Yes that sounds nice. Let's go someplace sometime somewhere and talk of something. Or everything.

Everything. Does everything exist? That's a lot of things - too much for me. Well, now that I think about it, I guess I could get used to everything, but I'd need everywhere to store it. But everything everywhere wouldn't fit well - there'd be no room for me. Everywhere by itself sounds nice though, excluding everywhere that's not nice. So scratch everything and keep everywhere. What about everyone? Oh God no, everyone? That would be horrible, I think I like someone more than everyone. Everyone is loud. Someone is nice in a nice way. Someone everywhere sometime. Maybe I'll write about that. So what's missing? I'll check.

Who: Someone

What:

Where: Everywhere (excluding everywhere I don't like)

When: Sometime

Ah, What. I've got nothing for What. Hold on. Nothing. That's another one. Nothing just might be the weirdest one too. How can nothing exist if its nothing? Define nothing and I'll find something in it. Maybe nothing can exist nowhere never. Yes I think that's right. But nothing somewhere? Sometime? Every time? That's absurd. Nothing and nowhere and no one and never all need each other to exist. Kinda romantic in a ironic way. No one is never lonely because he has nothing never to keep him company. The nothings keep to themselves. If they even exist that is. All oblivion and nothing. But I guess nothing can be something can't it? Like talking about nothing? Hey, I like talking about nothing sometimes. And on top of that, I like talking about nothing with someone because talking about nothing with myself gets redundant. Oh and I can talk about nothing everywhe... hold on a second. Eureka! I've got it!

Who: Someone

What: Nothing

Where: Everywhere (see above)

When: Sometime

Well, problem solved. I've got my topics. Time to write about someone sometime everywhere with nothing! Sounds about write. I mean right.

Right. Funny word.

Where was I?

Old Time's Sake

My drink's empty again. Damn, what time is it?

"Only the lonely,

know the way I feel tonight..."

I should be going, why did I even come? Pat and her pity-invite. Why the Hell did I think I'd enjoy this, I haven't talked to anyone all night - I've just stood here totally disengaged. But it's not like I've had the best company. Haha. Look at them, everyone an idiot, talking, laughing, living. They don't know anything about any of that - I'm the only one who knows what it's really like. "Tonight on National Geographic, David Attenborough examines the social habits of the modern human." Haha, what a bunch of losers.

"Only the lonely,

know this feeling ain't right..."

Shit, it's Rob. Please don't walk ove-

"Oh hey Rob."

"Preston man, what's up?"

"Oh y'know usual shit. Something cliche like that."

"Tell me about it."

Tell you about it? Pfft. You don't know the first thing about "it" asshole.

"How are you and Patricia?"

"Broke up last week."

"Aw, shit man, I'm sorry"

No you're not. I watched you flirt with her at every bloody party.

"Well, me and the boys are going bowling tomorrow, you should come with. Guys night."

I'll keep out of your man-love club, prick. Thanks. Now go get another drink.

"Sorry Rob, I gotta work late."

"Haha, alright Preston. Hit up the cell if you wanna hang man. Later."

God I need a drink.

"There goes my baby.

There goes my heart..."

Man, what's wrong with me? Do I really hate all these people? Shit am I depressed. I can't even relate to normal people. I'm leaving. Can't stand another minute of this. Car keys, phone, watch. Check. Alright. Here's to you, you happy people, I'm off to sit home alone with another record on. Just like every Saturday night.

"They're gone forever,

so far apart..."

8:00AM. Damn I'm late. Oh shit. I knew I drank too much. Goddamn-it, I can't go to work like this. Might as well sleep it off, Patricia's party is tonight. I need to be on my game. I need to win her back.

"But only the lonely,

know why I cry..."

God, my drink's empty again. What time is it?

"Only the lonely..."

Cigar Box

It takes a long time to get used to living. I'm not sure we ever do. I think that's why we die, we just get tired of not getting living.