sixtynine (re:#201)

She died today, and I wasn't there to hold her hand and I don't know if anyone was. All I had was the night-time walk through the suburbs in February that dried out my throat and my eyes and my heart.

There's nothing as desolate as the middle class at midnight.

Tiny rocks crunched under my sneakers and the hood of my jacket barely fit over my headphones and I'm talking to myself. It's like praying when you know there's no one listening.

And I'm telling myself some things that are true, and some things that are lies, and some things I can't tell apart. And I'm a plot desperately in search of some characters.

#201

Last night I dreamt of my father. Grass was growing already through his lifeless lips. My mother was all sticks and bones. The kind of thin you can feel in your hands when your fingertips touch her picture.
I am in a haze.
I have no mother or father and this is not something that comes suddenly. It sneaks its way through weeks so you feel surprised when it comes, but it has been there all along. Today I am merely a character in search of a plot.

sixtyeight

The cigarette burned to the filter, like a forgotten candle burns to the candlestick and then the house burns down to the foundation. He chuckled as he became acutely aware of the exposition; nicotine takes all the free will out of slow suicide.

sixtyseven

"how do you feel?"

"i don't."

But, I guess the best way to explain it is that it's like gazing upon the monolith in 2001 (the movie, not the year). Everything seems to make sense somehow, but you don't understand it, and you don't like it.

And, of course, it's full of stars, just like everything is.

#200

he sat facing her, the restaurant booths more comfortable than most, older than most too, judging from the threadbare base and long outdated color schemes. why was he thinking of these things at such a time? he chided himself.
hair falling over her blushing face, her eyes wandered around the diner. he watched her blink several times, knowing that she wasn't looking for the waitress, wasn't really looking at all. her lips moved slightly, a quiver, they way they do when you're about to speak but your mind acknowledges the imminent turn of events should you vocalize that thought, so you just take a deep breath instead.
"how long?" he broke the silence.
"2 weeks."

sixtysix

I heard his voice, but understanding it was like remembering a dream after you've had others. That feeling you get when something becomes less important.

I don't know if Khalil Gibran is my shoulder angel, or if I am his.

#199

i took a photo of your eyes. i said it was for an art project. not to sound like a stalker or anything, but i didn't have an art assignment. i'm not even enrolled in that class.

on a separate note, do you ever feel as though your soul is being watched?