The Last Stitch

The shape of him. So monotonous. Edge after edge of the same perpendicular. Every time he spoke I thought I was deaf. Because I could see the sound as it would chase through our silence in a wheel of colors, but I could never hear it. I'd watch his lips move. The dart of his gaze synchronized with them and wish I had some dictionary that could translate us for the other. Body and breath. Bend and poke. There will always be things we say to each other that simply lapse into the abyss. Of truth to lies. Intent to skin.

Our little soldiers with their heavy guns and broken triggers.

All our little vices nothing compared to how dependent we are on each other.

Empty bottles echoing the breath of strangers. As the bar looks on in stern accuse. As the smoke preempts the opening of that circuit. Turning over every stool. Finding myself in the residue.

Cliched portents do nothing for me now.

As the hour prescribes its last medicines.

Looking back, I might've understood had I only listened less.

Spare me any pretentious cures. The sickness is so much more interesting.

And that is how I know I loved them.