My bed is made of pillows piled, velvet colours against brilliant feather filled silk. Fushsia moments of vibrant purple and embroidered flowers to catch on my hair. I’m alone, a sadly unexpected course of events. I’m feeling like I should be used to it, absence being my usual dine in fare, but somehow it’s a weight. I can feel an invisible body, cells dividing in every breath. Voices have nothing on this. My hands are sliced, cut from broken glass. I broke my lamp earlier tonight, the bulb shattering hard on my little side table.
My music reflects little impact moments, refracting time spent wondering and waiting up again. No matter how high I turn it up, it won’t drown this feeling out. A song of connection, never tearing from my throat to come pouring out my eyes. It’s not my game, it’s not my anti-drug. This is a powder I shake to the table and gather in the palm of my hand because this is your heart and I hold it. I want to transmit the scent of dying roses and let it gleam for just a moment in your eyes when my lips finally part.
There’s no freedom or justice here, but a quiet flying fuck of desire and twilight. I know it’s possible for me to spend days alone together only with my computer. I’m sure I’ve done it, easily fourty-eight hours with no human contact that wasn’t filtered through a machine, but it’s not healthy because sometimes late at night it’s like I’m the only person left alive. I woke up and missed the disaster, now I can walk out on perpetually empty streets and eventually die, watching for people to crawl out from their hiding holes.
I should take a picture to seduce you with. Clear a swath with my razorblade gray eyes. You’ll never think of anything else again when you think of gunmetal blue. It’s getting colder as the city flickers out one light at a time, the creatures going finally to bed. Nervous system on hold, pause, repeat. Sleep-mode across the border, the sun is coming up in England as I type this.