#161

it is unspeakable that i should go on with my life while hers is crashing down all around her. this morning's "to-do" list included preparing ground turkey for taco night, folding laundry, writing a letter to my grandmother. has it been a week, two weeks, more, since she has had the heart to touch pen to paper? to-do lists notwithstanding.

my funniest cousin called me yesterday, recounting his day and i laughed, i laughed till my eyes were wet and there was a certain pain in that, knowing that all of her laughter recently is only laughter of relief and not of joy.

i feel the burden to act melancholy, because i feel melancholy along with her, i do ache for her. what am i to say? my laughter makes me feel calloused; i only just heard the latest news. every phone call home reminds me of how much i hold in my hands every day.

i dread seeing her destroyed.

#160

I found you and I today, resting happily in the 5th chapter of my favorite book, on a page with all the prettiest words held in faded flourescent yellow.
I haven't highlighted a moment of my life since you've been gone.

#159

everything looks beautiful if you don't look to deeply.
clean cut and bright, he talks about God in certain circles and lays his alleged faith down on Friday night without remorse. she leaves public announcements of love for him, but sheds her skin every Saturday.
choking on cynicsm, i smile, the light in my eyes reflecting a wrathful fire inside.
i'm staring hard into the solar eclipse hoping it will tell me what happened to my heart.

fiftysix

You fell asleep with your feet out the window at sixty-seven miles per hour. You mumbled something about a kitten eating tortilla chips. Tom Waits played on the radio in between the gentle hissing.

I've never told you that you talk in your sleep. I think I'll keep that between me and your subconscious.

#158

every monday through friday now for months he rode the morning train. she was always in the subway before him- had arrived early enough to procure a bench and she always sat in the same coat with the same familiar white wires running from her pocket to her ears and he wondered what they told her every day.
he thought of this as he walked to the subway, earlier than usual, earlier than ever before, determined to greet her at the bottom of the stairs. glancing around the room, then at his watch, he settled down near the stairs, waiting. as he sat, his eyelids grew heavy.
startled by the clack of high heels, his head snapped up. there she was! right in front of him!
without a chance to speak or even catch her eye, a dollar dropped from her hand into his lap. she walked on.
no, he hadn't planned on what to say to her. the need for "i'm not a bum" hadn't crossed his mind.

fiftyfive

Her lips whispered blackmail, her throat breathed empty promises. It's ten to midnight and after that I have nothing left. The future is gone and been replaced by something new, but nothing as holy as tomorrow. She keeps the rhythm of the seconds with the toes of her boots and the snap of her finger and the click of her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "A strange fascination, you have," she says, with the condescension only reserved for me, "with that which is here and then gone, never to return."

fiftyfour

He coughed up smoke and cinders and all of his dreams. The tears in his eyes, though soon gone, told his story to himself. Boys don't cry. Ever. A contaminated life in contrast, a black a white a central grey making shadow puppets on the wall. The story the tell is grand. And the paint on the glass is peeling away in the shape of fingernails and months of carelessness. And one day, he knows, this all has meaning outside of itself.

fiftythree

'Hotel California' was on the karaoke. Terribly. His throat was dry, and his eyes were not. "It's nothin' in particular," he said like a man twice his age or twice as drunk. "Nothin' said and nothin' did. It's just what it is." Footsteps filed passed, raucous laughter and sensual swoons and 'it' being taken outside. More players for the overdramatic. Some hands on his shoulders now and again, looking for someone else. Someone who, they say, looks just like him, same haircut, same nose, that's crazy, man, sorry, have a good night. It's mistaken identity even when you don't recognize yourself anymore.

#157

the big picture window was ominously black by 6pm. night comes so early and lasts so long these days he thought.
heaving a sigh and looking back down, he continued his work, taking note, yet again, of the deadline circled on his desk calendar.
SPLICK
"what the...?" he looked up. a nerf gun arrow was stuck to the window. he leaned closer to the window, squinting into the darkness.
SPLICK, SPLICK. SPLICK-SPLICK-SPLICK.
it continued and he jolted back as a rush of arrows assalted the window. curiously, they stuck in an ill-balanced heart shape.
his wife emerged from the shadows, blowing imaginary smoke from the barrel of her gun, and laughing. he had never been more in love.

#156

he closed his eyes tightly, partially to hide the aggravated roll, and to try and bring a bit of sanity back into his life.
across the conference table, she tossed her shiny, product-laden hair over her shoulder, touched her lawyer's arm and continued with her self-serving demands.
ugh. models! he thought.
she peered across the table at him, playing the part of the wounded animal, peeking her gigantic doe eyes out from under fake eyelashes.
maybe bambi's mom had it coming.

#155

i drank myself sick last night for no particular reason. nothing was on television, so i feebly attempted that new video game. everything nowadays is first person shooter.
so i decided to be the first person to take a shooter in my new apartment.
unfortunately, i had a limited supply of beverages.
i can still taste that entire gallon of chocolate milk.

fiftytwo

"So what changed?" she asked through the roar of seven giant television screens on the wall happily engaged in American football broadcasts. Didn't know this was a sports bar.

"You know, I never thought about it," and it was the truth. Exhaustion. Repression. It was like being stuck under the peg on a map on a classroom wall.

Maybe, like most things, it was because one day, he needed someone like her to ask him that question. Any earlier or any later or any one else and he might have had a different answer and never thought about it again.

"I guess what changed was that I began to believe I'd still be me even if my life moved slower than my heartbeat."

fiftyone

The warmth in his belly wouldn't last long, he knew. The snare drum echoed off the walls out of time, syncopating and syncopating syncopating. He closes his eyes and imagines his life as if it happened like it's happening in the song, a solemn introduction and crescendos and tearful harmonies and awkward, out of tune intermissions. The waitress interrupts him, he respectfully declines. She seems nice. He watches her walk back to the kitchen and imagine what song her life sounds like, and he just met her but he wonders what their songs sound like intertwined.

#154

hiking her patterned dress up to her knees, she looked up and down, judging the distance from the ground to the top of the tire swing.
tucking a wisp of white, curled hair behind her ear, she readjusted, and pulled herself up with a burst of energy. momentum started the rope swinging, the tire spinning her slowly as she drifted back and forth.
she laughed, glistening eyes and wrinkled face turned towards the sky.

#153

27ty: "i love smart women."

imcute: "like, what do you mean?"

27ty: "for example, a properly used semicolon is quite the turn-on for me."

imcute: ";)"

27ty has signed off.

#152

he listened to them talk about their travels. their eyes were bright, voices empassioned; they were dancing around with pictures of poverty and hugging scattered children. every sentence laden with guilt-inducing keywords, the presentation held every proper heartrending, soul-changing moment of the trip. after a conclusive but unconvincing statement from each member of the trip of how they planned to go back, to raise money, to work for reform, he left.
returning home to his simple and empty apartment, he finally understood why he always felt different.
they would keep their belongings, but become (as least temporarily) enthralled with the idea of giving more to others. they would make frequent trips to goodwill to create room at home for more, more, more.
he never wanted any of it in the first place.

fifty

The streets were different now in 1972 than they were in 1957. The brick buildings had grown taller, and now had flags and ribbons draped from them. The street was cobblestone, but now asphalt and spray paint and bodies writhing in pain and bootstomps in rhythm. The storefronts that had TV-sized radios and oven-sized TVs were but shattered panes and torn clothing. He couldn't see very far anywhere he looked, shoulder-to-shoulder-to-back-to-front, at least everyone was pushing in the same direction, like the current of the stream that carries the minnow. His tightly gripped red book and red scarf and white t-shirt turned red were held to his chest, his heart beating and pounding and aching, all in time with everyone else's.