If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.

Δευτέρα, 22 Αυγούστου 2016

Gone Baby Gone

I stay there for a while. I like it here. I actually close my eyes and feel -for the first time in a really long time- at peace.

I love the roof.

So I sit of the sill and I blow my cigarette smoke towards the waning moon creating little clouds around it.

Makes it more dramatic I guess.

I remember all the nights we spent up here. Literally, and with you simply crystallizing from my thoughts and yet, it's probably the first time I don't want you here.

An unfamiliar time.

I feel better on my own tonight.

I feel disconnected.

From you. Us. The world.

It's another sleepless night, and I can't put my finger on what's keeping me up again.

My finger isn't that big afterall.

So I enjoy my cigarette on the roof in complete mental silence.

And. It. Is. Awesome.

I throw my cigarette butt down the busy street below and jump off the sill and back to safety.

Next thing I know, I'm in my kitchen, burning old diaries in Pyrex bowls in my underwear, doors and windows wide open to get the smoke out, while sipping white wine and listening to my Ray Charles record until everything is gone, burnt to ashes.

It's actually funny when you think of it.

I think I actually have a little chuckle with myself.

Imagine the neighbors call the fire department and they barge in my house with their hoses and helmets only to find me having a little "clearout".

But not, it's funny really.

It's so you. So us.


How that pile of pages upon pages of emotions once felt, are nothing but a black stack of something, and once you try to grab it, let alone touch it, it falls apart into nothing.

I don't know how to handle myself on sleepless nights.

And thank God the neighbors are away.

But I think I'll sleep like a baby tonight.

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