before the deadening
your pores smell sharply of alcohol. i think we are finished, you say. you say it again. i tell you to go to sleep. didn't you hear what i said? i did, waking. you left at 12, i waited till 2, it's 6 now, and i have to be up at 8. yeah, but tell me where you've been first.
i thought you'd react more, you say. do you mean like in may when i came home to a half empty apartment and jumped on the wall and and flung light casings and curled and rocked in ball of forced tears on the floor? well that was before, that was in the afternoon, that was sober, that was before the deadening. but i dont say any of this. i do say, what do you mean? are you just saying this for a reaction?
i thought you'd react more, i'm thinking. i thought you might fight for my love as i slipped away. try things. at least fucking find me a doctor to look at the cracked red skin on my penis that makes sex painful and gradually unconsidered. you say you haven't been happy. with me? with you. oh.
your eyes are gleaming red and laserlike when mine open from a brief shallowing of consciousness. i'm preaching. we have to try, all couples go through this, we have to begin a postive cycle again. yeah but no. i know i can't answer your questions definitively. i could be using you. my mind sometimes drifts in sex. i'm not sure if i really love you anyway. questions with existences that nullify their obvious hesitations.
so does this mean you're not going? going where? to the movie with her. oh come on! are you serious? i flip emphatically to face away and mumble of the ridiculousness, intending to go back to sleep although by now i'm wide awake. but then you tell of your dreams and i remember of your spirit. powerful and unfamiliar. before the deadening i had more questions. i had rawness and excitement for our differences. ok, i say, i won't go.