(weighs and means)

My brain is a ghost train lumbering on through the back of familiar places and all the dubious hopes that once came with december (that still do when we're not looking. unfurling slow and certain as the sunshine fades over the western night).

I need a new fantasy.

Anything to escape this fucking fever...


(as wholly water)

My brain is a slow trail on a buzz bomb taking hte last goodbye over dresden before the bastards came on crashing through the gates and brought the whole goddamn place down on bruised knees.

Long time. long time.

And these are strange days, indeed. too much drinking, i suppose. too little smoking. too many hours left here with my dick in my hand wondering still just where the fuck it is it all went wrong and when i'll get right again.

I imagine i'm on my way but it's hard to tell for shit certain on a lonely day like today when the rain falls for twelve fucking hours and the wind whips a whisper so fucking hard all you can do is pray for a sleep that doesn't remind you of what it was like to wake up in her company. smelling peonis and the soft remains of pussy on the scraggled hair above your lip.

I still miss her.

And it's hard to imagine a time in my life when i won't feel a hint of the unrequited madness that's kept me up and a little less than aloof these last few months of temporal destruction.

Though i will...

I know that's just what happens. when i keep away. when i hide in new places. when i drown off the hours with friends i hold dearer each day.

I know i'll get back to that man that she fell in love with in the first place.

Not for her, though.

For me.

And i'll rise a bolder force than i ever could've imagined. a fire in the dusk. a man possessed by a raging sense of becoming. a hollered glory. a cracking piece of the fucking sun torn down to burn up these days until the days when i can smile, easily, again.