i. This city reminds me
Nights I’d come home soul stained with vodka, whiskey, gin
After all-night, kissing the wrong person
Sleeping in to get passed the disappointments
ii. That song reminds me
Open wound of a life
Waking even though my very essence was dying
Everything amounted to nothing, desperate to hold on to something
iii. This place reminds me
Beautiful new memories made
Body/mind a lot less heavy
Time loves those old scars away
those nights, wine – spilling our souls.
ii. je suis?
this could all be a dream.
i want to swim in space.
hold me closer, not too close.
what if monster is a gene?
vi. where’s the camera?
tell me I did something sweet…
all of your thoughts are raindrops.
the ocean never misses the sand.
where all our secrets lay safely.
genius is not born of air.
xi. fire escape
climb with me, the highest heights.
no worries, i am always here.
xiii. las vegas
alive with you, until the morning.
xiv. train station
all beginnings start with a journey.
never been happier in one place.
The low hum of white noise emitted from the television. Elo rose from his slumber on the living room sofa, where had been strewn about all afternoon. The sun had already set. Moonlight shone in through the half-cracked drapes. As he stirred in the living room, the click, click, click of fingertips meetings computer keys echoed into the air from down the hall. Elo rose with excitement, and abandoning all logic, began to head down the hall of the apartment to the spare room to investigate. The wood floors squeaked beneath his every footstep. The closer he came to the room, the louder the clicking grew. He stood at the entrance of the room for a moment, calculating his next move. With the click, click, clicking all around him, his left right hand reached out and hovered over the shiny, brass, door knob. His hand trembled and he was unable to get a grip on the knob at first. He tried a second time, and his palms slid right off the handle. He realized then that he had begun to perspire. His temples, forehead, and palms dripped with moisture. He wiped the front and back of his hands against his corduroy pants. He shook himself to try to snap out of it. He tried the knob again, and again his hand slipped. He grew frustrated and had to take a deep breath to calm himself. Once he had grown sufficiently tranquil, he worked up the nerve, and opened the door to find absolutely nothing. Nothing appeared in the room at all. The computer was off and the keys untouched, though he could still hear the clicking. The only other natural sound emanating from the room, was the breeze blowing in through an ajar window. Elo stood still for a long while. The breeze calmed, he parted the curtains and gazed out of the window. He couldn’t help but reminisce about her. She was always so full of vibrancy. Her every action was filled with elegance, whether she was smoking in the bathtub after a long day, or seated in this spare room typing away at her manuscript. She knew exactly how to set his teeth on edge, when she was upset with him; and exactly how to assuage him when things were tough. She was the one who had found this very apartment. She was everything, the beginning and the end of his day. They used to spend their free days hunting new galleries and cafes – art and coffee, the essential ingredients to happiness. They went to plays dressed in early 17th century opera attire for kicks. She understood what it meant to be an outsider. She understood how fast his mind moved from thought to thought and dream to dream. She was clever, raw, and frighteningly earnest. He honestly could not fathom how to survive without her.
Continue reading “Wakefield Avenue”