Those were the weeks. Uncultured, rhythmic in enticing clamour. He used to row stories at dusk. Sit through cigarettes and cheap whiskey, tell - tale cars of riot and canvas a pretty picture of tomorrow. He had company, company which commingled interest. Not one to commiserate errors, it used to bring the best out of him. Evoke trains of would-be's and fragment illustrations of ideas they'd dreamt up, previous weeks. The visitors never complained, they'd fortify, rally broken bones. He'd believe them, light another, parading famous yarns. His dresses were incomplete but shoes clean as today. He used to cry, he used to laugh and he was kept on a pedestal in third party chatter, he wanted victory and he used to win.
She wasn't much alone. She did not demand him. She placed herself a step below to begin with, unhinging on his sub conscious, partaking asymmetric rhetoric. Her hair was uncombed, equal delight to disarranged studies. Clothes unmatched and eyes woebegone, pupils smiling on vertical curves. The lips curled at an obtuse angle and met each other in stricken harmony. Those lips knew how to brush themselves against, kiss a stone. They could hold him still, as much as command a cigarette. But it was her hands that mobbed, throwing stones and sticks to his unready melodies. She didn't demean though held him water to her decree. Satisfactorily, she took him out. He did not resent, resist or require. Suddenly, the films he so equated were comforting. Crushed leaves in a tea pot, their delivery was somewhat wrapped. Boxes covered in thought and tapes of hope. They could plot an empire, undo melancholy and unstrap each other at fancy's whims. Music, you ask? Never too loud and always special. The tunes they summarized could tackle a magazine and shame a critic. Of culture they accompanied, making nights memorable. The mornings may have been an aenema in denial, found in summaries best read by those atrophied by our neglect.
So today the coaster is split in between, one hand's a trail of anecdotes; the other side's a bottle of distress. He finds himself stitching possibilities of morning dust, unitching another week of work. See sawing a flute of chance on a vacation unslept, where she is today. He knows not but its somewhere he imagines himself each evening, borrowed mad to a hatter. Its not all crackers in sunshine, he calms his aching nerves while the scent of her awakens him. Weighing against, a combination of waning consolation. Yearning instructions, he shutters the company today as weak, toasted grim on fertile discussion. For stirred sentiment is as suffocating as summers in sorrow. Like spelling mistakes on your most important hand written letter. The need, the smell of unopened envelopes encompassing his mood today. Probably she is wasting time on better things, unhurried/ unworried for his disparaging comments. He pines till the last drop dries itself a dire death. Maybe she is unhappy too...
He knows not what it is he wants to be used to now. He in unsure but slowly, with each sip, getting there. Ideally, love and ideally, lust but its not an ideal world now, is it?
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