sketch for dawn

The streets are static except for the dog that sniffs through the trash. There are old newspapers being carried by the wind, sometimes flying beautifully one of two feet up the ground. There are empty cans around the house and I’m in between. Such a mirrored image of myself.

There’s a sketch of you in my goodbye note. You look pretty as usual and your eyes are starring at me – and I thought you’d said it was impolite to do such a thing. Actually, I took a lot of care in drawing your eyes because it’s the entrance to one’s soul, or so they say, and I have to feel you somehow. They’re still looking bad, since I could never really draw, but it’s the best I can and it even looks like how I imagine they are.

I call you (six times), your machine answers. It’s not you, it’s a woman. She says something, but I don’t understand, I wonder if you can me. She’s a little robotic and then vanishes in a beep. I record you a message 30 seconds long and many dollars’ worth getting it all out once and for all. But you won’t hear a word. You won’t pick it up, ever. Even if you do.

I’m not expecting your calls, I’m only hoping for them. When it comes down to it, you’re not real - but you’re more believable than I. I’m an uninteresting fiction, though bathed in reality. I look at the stopped clock and fantasize about you penetrating your cock in all my cavities, or in any other’s. My eyes should be convicted for rape, my hands for indecent exposure. That is how I got lost in virginity.

How I wanted to write myself a porno tale – such a silly thing to do – in which you’re doing all that I dreamed you would. I dropped the pen after writing

“you come close”

, because it seemed enough. Sometimes I look at it and drown myself in amazement. Love was never a four-letter word. I have tried it several times and I always lose at Hangman.