we used to saunter home happy drunk, only every now and then, to jump into bed and tuck knees up behind knees with lips pressed to spine bones (yours totaled at twenty three, but i suspect we all do). now i find myself more often then not (everyday) counting the tiles of mildew on the bathroom floor, and it's five a.m. and its hard to wakeup when i'm not sleeping. what is better then a lifetime, and what is worse then a lifetime without you? freedom to fuck whomever, but sex without love wasn't all it was cracked up to be, and drinking orange juice out of the carton lost its appeal within a week (as did eating cereal with chocolate milk), i still sleep on my side of the bed and i think i'll probably die and elderly man craving your sugary lips. the look in the mirror shouts trouble, and my heart beats slower and i've lost all the red in my cheeks. i stand outside in the thin january air, with a blanket of coats and my finger tips are frozen for the sake of cigarettes. it's now 6:38 and the morning light is stuck somewhere between spring and winter. and i'm not a nihilist, it just wasn't my fault that my beliefs meant nothing. i fucking miss my old dog too, like you wouldn't believe. i am going to stop drinking. it may last a day, or a month. this means i'll probably write less, or maybe more. i am unsure.
