The Crossroads of Dead Ends
'but I've got a nomadic head'
The world is spinning out in front of my eyes. The future and the past is spitting out behind me in a trail of dissenting smoke. Your room smells like cheap scotch and some girl’s old perfume. My nails are searching for a solution in between your regrets and your bed sheets. You left me a key to the door and two ten dollar bills to spend at the gas station. The windows are all open and the curtains blow out towards the center of the room. It reminds me of the time I sat on the roof with Doreen before it started raining. The air is moist like it might storm. You left all the lights on downstairs.
The room is circling my head. The floor isn’t beneath my feet any longer. I can hear my heart racing in the kitchen. The wind is curling into the veins of my fingers. I can’t feel my breath on your neck any more. The whole retched town is crawling up behind my back again.
Your bed is squeaky and old. It reminds me of Mother’s bed before she moved out. It’s like watching myself through a projector screen. I’m disconnected from the truth of the matter. The sky outside is as dark as your voice is on type writer paper. I’m terribly afraid to use your phone during this weather. The cord is around my wrist. You said to be careful and to keep the door latched. I need to use the phone to call the cleaners to help me pick myself up off your carpet. There is a vacuum in the hall, but that will never due.
When are you coming home? I feel like a toddler trapped inside a public restroom without you sitting on the side of the bed with your hand on my shoulder reminding me to forget about the way the air sighs.
The room is circling my head. The floor isn’t beneath my feet any longer. I can hear my heart racing in the kitchen. The wind is curling into the veins of my fingers. I can’t feel my breath on your neck any more. The whole retched town is crawling up behind my back again.
Your bed is squeaky and old. It reminds me of Mother’s bed before she moved out. It’s like watching myself through a projector screen. I’m disconnected from the truth of the matter. The sky outside is as dark as your voice is on type writer paper. I’m terribly afraid to use your phone during this weather. The cord is around my wrist. You said to be careful and to keep the door latched. I need to use the phone to call the cleaners to help me pick myself up off your carpet. There is a vacuum in the hall, but that will never due.
When are you coming home? I feel like a toddler trapped inside a public restroom without you sitting on the side of the bed with your hand on my shoulder reminding me to forget about the way the air sighs.