The ground is shaking beneath me and I can’t stand survival mode anymore.
Let me take a rest on this misty winter night.
Let me lay my head inside this taxi.
It is wet and cold and the streets look like they’re melting.
I looked back, but only for a bit (I tell myself.)
Clutch to the pillow and tell yourself you do not use yourself over and over again.
These nights will always be the longest.
I will miss the alley cats and the way they freely roam on their own survival. The way they carefully dance over the soil and snow. I will miss the way my fingers tremble over this cigarette ash and how the chill of twilight is accompanied by the far off drone of an airplane landing from somewhere, from another time zone, from another life. I will miss the spray of my neighbor’s hose, neighbors that I never really met, only heard of. I will miss these yellowed windows and the lives I never knew of. The silhouettes of satellites and cable lines set against the melancholy blue backdrops and blinking lights. I won’t miss the cheap sex or feeling of used-ness, but I will miss the unattached roughness and cum stained sheets of someone I knew, maybe. I will maybe miss the four am coffee runs and the sounds of the subway rumbling every twenty minutes. Maybe the mindless weekends of drinking some swampy colt-45 brew, and maybe the boys who smoked round back the cement building by the halal cart, dragging their feet slowly back to school, maybe not. 36 avenue and it’s broad array of masjids and pharmaceutical offerings; the women draped in saris and hijabs; the little Mexican girls that dance around the laundromat. The things that made me know home was home was home and I was home and no matter how late it was, it was okay to come home and be home with two beautiful women that made it that way. The broken english sentences and the music blaring out of coddled speakers. The lamps that were never ever lit in the next door backyard; the comforting loneliness of my own, with it’s black steel rails and plastic chairs. The plush pajamas that this old lady wears, in her forest full of tall plants that are much older than I; I can’t tell you how much I’ll miss this cross bearing saint of a woman. In this city that I’ve come to love and hate all at once, and the overwhelming feelings that I get when I look over by the riverside. I may have grown tired of the people, but no one can erase the smirk that grows on my face as I walk over this sobering bridge, contemplating how pain, the future, and the sea could ever collide into one.
Goodbye, good-bye, good bye.
Hahaha Jesus Christ being lonely is tiring as fuck.
I spend half my time asleep, trying to dream myself away. The world is dark, full of thick blankets and oversized pillows. Thirty second amnesiac, I can’t remember what I was just doing in my dream state. It’s all worth it; this is my only form of alleviation from reality. No longer interested in drugs and psychedelic pursuits, sleep is just another escape from sobriety.
A crushed can of Modelo. How queer. Strangers everywhere. Orange light spilling over white leather. “I feel everything,” she said, and you felt nothing. Trancy music. Time is slow and cool; smooth like liquid. Gangly girls running about. Jesus you are so bored, but you can’t see past the stars in your eyes. So much background noise. You feel so young in an alien land. Drugs amplify the intensity. So many fucking cats. So many fucking people. You are innate and inanimate, a piece of furniture lost in the background. Leave leave leave. Taxis cruise the streets like lone sharks. What a ghostly hour. Two of hearts play on the radio, and you enjoy it, for once. Cocaine and honey. Warmth, finally. Toasty eggs and spinach on the range. Two women of exuberance, sniffing more and more exuberance up their noses. The bed is glowing and you feel yourself melt a little bit. A green glass bottle of Jameson sits on the wooden table, along with twelve other cups. The light slows down and zig zags around around your face. You are the life of the party, you are the life of the party.
It licks your neck and teases your tongue. It sucks you, all of you, deep deep deep inside. It even swallows for you.
But it doesn’t love you.
No, no. It doesn’t love you.
And it takes a little while to realize this. You mistake lust for love, a unique connection, or something more, many times over, but you know it’s not what you want it to be. There is a hollowness. A sort of vacancy that is never truly inviting, but more of just something that comes with casual sex.
He is violently beautiful, but no, he couldn’t love you even if he tried.
You leave the bed smelling like cum, and you don’t dare look back, because, in the end, he doesn’t care for you.
So you shove your clothes back on, because, in the end, there’s no time for talking, no time for kissing, no time for anything but physicality.
You shove your clothes back on, and you leave, and you don’t dare look back because, in the end, lust erodes you.
Write me a love poem and hurl it into the wind.
Maybe words can still find their own ways.
But instead, I will only write about you.
You say you are so full of love, but you’re just so full of bullshit.
You cannot and you simply will not love again, not for a long time.
And you grab, and you grab, and you grab, until you just cannot fucking reach anymore, until your fingers are yellow and thin, sick of clasping at nothing.
And you keep grabbing, you keep seeking fulfillment, you keep assigning meaningless things significance, and you just keep doing the same shit, over, and over, and over again, this unbreakable cycle.
And what’s worse is that you settle, you settled for the past, you settled for the pain, you settled for fleeting moments of joy, when you know you don’t deserve that - you don’t deserve any of this.
You deserve love, you deserve so much of it, oh god, you deserve the fucking world. You deserve bouquets of roses left on your doorstep, every single night, and you deserve to drown in love letters.
But it’s not what you want anymore, not like that. You were given love and you douse it with oil and light it on fire, and you laugh, and you laugh because you can’t do anything else anymore, you can’t, you can’t, you can’t.
You can’t be angry, you can’t be happy, you can’t be a lot of things. You try to shape yourself around these caricatures, and contort your face in different ways. You camouflage and it’s ridiculous and you can’t help but laugh.
It is lonely, and it is cold, and this night will last forever in all of the worst ways. And you will be exhausted, and the streets will be lined with neon, and no one will cradle you the way the moon does.
You’ll just wait, and wait, and wait for the day that your heart will explode
all over again.