Scrumptious sounds purring. My first night alone in such a long time. Sounds like thunder and women's breath. Sweet cinnamon on my tounge. Proofreader, off. Spellcheck, off. This is me beside myself, watching over, tapping my shoulder. The true definition of ecstacy. Tea so hot my glasses fog, music so loud I recite the words. This is how I write, cornered, private. I find myself writing more oft on how I write then many other things, it's true. But this is what get's me started.

-

A handsome man stands, hands in his jacket pocket, watching the cotton swirl about. We are in a laundry mat, and he is washing away from the white all the memories of past nights. All he sees is fabric, bed sheets, twirling about before him. Flashes, flashes, he catches faces in the sheets. Do they hurt? Do they entice? We do not know, his expression never gives. Hard amber stares out from unwashed hair, and we know what he could smell like. Unwashed grain, dirt, and a musk of strong colonge. You say he'd smell of some sex? No, too many nights ago. He is clean of memories still clinging to his sheets, that is why he's here. We simply have the pleasure to watch him and wonder. Who was it? Why did it end? Where did he go? You can't ask and I never will, I'm sure the story has been told before.

a glance.

And we see his face, a shadow down his cheeks, red thin lips, dry eyes. Eyes that either ran dry, or never cared to start. Mysteries we'll never know, lest we find the teller of his story. That is not me, that is not my job. I'm here to tell you he exists, as does his story. There could be love involved, or he could be as dry in his heart as in his eyes. Or there could be no story at all, and this really is just a guy, washing his sheets, with lack better to look at then you or me. If that is the case, I will make one. But not now, not now. Now I have to fold my socks.

-


Naive gray matter,
Trying to seperate worlds,
Split/ting heads from tails.