The haze reached me in a melodic drawl, words hastening around me, images coiling, surrounding me. The dew of yesterday's tears still heavy on my shirt. Twist a man's pride so much that he is willing to give up his life. Fuck. The many misses, their calloused hands shouldering onto my body in imaginative shapes that my mind wishes -- skin, lips, cigarettes.
My feet dug into the sands of my little island. How many fucking years, how many years, Michael? My little island of loneliness, to where do you want me to stand, to where do you want me to be, my little self?
She wouldn't want to see me like this. She would give me this cool look, that look she gave me last summer, that cool look of my blue summer, that blue look of things lost and gone. She would say, get up Michael, get up. When -- why have I only thought of her now?
Little waves pushed up against me, tugging at me, cracking at my bones, haunted and haughty breaths plaguing me.
She wouldn't want me like this. She'd put her arms around me. Cry when I pushed her off.
When the haze broke, meaning when the hours crept and crept and morn broke into through the cluttered windows, and struck into the apartment to my shivering body, crouched on the side of the floor beside the bed. When the world declares for me to unshell, I uncurl, take step after step, stepping into my faceless self. Feet find themselves difficult to balance.
It is the saddest thing, to realize you are bleeding, and that you can't stop it.
"Ready Michael?" Said he, smoke rising from his lips.
"Yes."
The engine flicked on flawlessly, I looked out the window, watching sweaty little kids pass me by, barely pushing the soccer ball.
I laughed then, and he gave me an odd glance. Youth passed me by -- No. I passed by youth. I sprinted past every corridor, gave way to every chase. So fast the wind caught its own breath.
