All these beautiful people around me and they don’t mean a thing to me. I feel a bit bad, because I can feel these horrible moments where they would really quite like me to kiss them and I ignore it. I feel like I’m being impolite or something. Hah. I miss you. Complicated rhythms of ‘you aren’t around’. I’m reading your book, the broken spine on my fingers tells me that you’re out there breathing. Like I’ll roll the window down at a corner and you’ll be standing there waiting. There’s a tear in the fabric of my favourite dress and it’s you. The chaos is missing an element of tongue. Pull you down beside me for a sweet dark kiss. It’s a bloody week but I’ll taste the same. Two days left. Two days of waking to sudden red fishnets standing. Spiral colour hitting the shower, red, plum, together black into the drain. I want to take handfuls of this colour and throw it against the sky to stick. Arching back bow curve upwards and watch it slick slide drip down as rain leaving wet wet trails. A kitten lapping milk from the bowl. To make it perfect, I’d need red hair. Dark red, dawn red. Scarlet to match the drenching tide. Longer than it is now. Rinse these sheets in cold water. Bring them to the bathroom and soak them clean. I don’t know how to do pure, I don’t know raw or limitless, but I can learn. White sand on those beaches you dream of. Standing life drawing. Sunlight. This bend and that delicate curve. Vintage poses, dancer, raver, daughter of someone, the one who’ll lick you clean. There’s an exchange.
Touch.
You’re it.