opening lines

So here are the opening lines. A simple sigh a cigarette waiting to be lit. A scratchy song whispering in a ringing ear. A blank page blindingly white and the desire to cover it in ink as black as my soul.

We sat there on a couch another movie another cigar another long conversation. Witty jokes, challenges games discussions baking,  no alcohol today.  Another night will pass and the world just keeps spinning. These lines will stick in my head as we go on living.

And here I am trying to imprint my memory in these words these flashes of photographs in black ink.

My hot chocolate was terrible, your fries delicious. Satisfaction filled me  as the salt cut into my tongue disappearing instantly. And my kitchen still has the lingering smell of pumpkin and spice. I ate too much today. I tried to fill that void with substance, tried to drown my stress with flavor, with sensation. 

I don’t know what I’m aiming to achieve just yet. Useless rambles, droning on and on. I need someone to listen someone to bore with my words. Tonight will end lonely.

Me, a book, an empty bed. I miss those days when I would fall asleep in firm warm arms. Kept safe, tucked in against another. Feeling his hot breath on the back of my neck his heart beating on my back, his stomach inflating deflating, in and out in and out. Waking to a smile and watching eyes a gentle morning kiss. Yes those were the good moments the sacred times.

 I get lost in memory sometimes.

Memory of words, moment’s, photographic flashes. A smile an expression, a gesture, a building, an old man waiting for a bus.  A phrase, an emotion, twinkling lights, the feel of a fabric being pulled away from fingertips, a laugh, a song, a silent night in bed with nightmares that soak your sheets awakening you while you scream and twist gasping for air. A dream with a made up lover perfect as you kissed under water making love at a bottom of a pool never coming up for air because its unreal.

Sometimes I stand in the shower water scorching hot, getting lost in daydreams and made up stories, situations, what I want to write next but will never get around to, every detail vibrant alive almost real as if It had passed and im simply looking back.

No ones home. Here I am, as ive been finding myself lately, alone, and enjoying it a bit uneasy with myself im like a stranger in my own skin never quite fitting right, alien, im not used to silence I despise it when im stressed and it seems I’ve been extremely stressed lately.

Ha write to the beat of my own mind? Insane blasphemy all it will produce is rushed words choppy lines terrible grammers and so many misspelling people will think im writing in old English.

“go away my misery it never meant that much to me it never sent a get well card…”

Thoughts. Unfinished unpolished. Settling filling this white paper falling in imperfection true emotion this is how my mind works. 

Another year has just begun and im starting stumbling tumbling tripping over my own tongue.