It’s cold. Nightclub in my hair, I can taste hipsters and black t-shirts with ironic slogans.
Once upon a time in a far off land, past the horizon yet closer than your next breath, there was the flavour of earth when she sighs in her sleep, the inner workings of a fires orgasm, wind at a molecular level.
Heavy handed angels sing themselves to sleep in my head when I’m alone. They can’t help the shrieking or the battering of wings against my skull. I dream of my love with open eyes, how it is a solid thing. My voice cracks into dust to blow from my lips like cigarette smoke when there’s no one to talk to. My brittle mouth, my painful eyes. It’s a face made up of description, snowscape blinding because when you catch me when I’m not paying attention, there’s nothing there. Defined by grace, it’s all interaction. Wit rapier parry slash, never an organized dissent, but spontaneous. It’s a prelude to nothing deeper, nothing more than a mapped mirror visible. You make me real, yet I’m still an aside.
Joey Comeau, the writer behind the A Softer World, is serializing a novel on-line to be available by donation. A new chapter is being put up publicly for every goal amount of money received. The first chapter is already posted.