pieces of fabric

I am back to tearing off labels of beer bottles. I rip them into small pieces and roll them into balls. They sit inside the front pocket on the shirt I wear when I go out. It used to have snaps, now it is held together by buttons. There is a hole on the left arm, half way up from the wrist to the elbow. I press my finger into it and feel the skin of my arm. Sometimes I pull on the hairs that stick out until one lets loose and I put that in the pocket too. The guy next to me sits on his stool like an egg and rests his shins against the red vinyl. He spins his bottle on his right knee and some formerly attractive woman rest her hand on the other. There is lipstick on her teeth and the butt of her cigarette. She laughs at a show on the television. There is no sound, just her laughing. The man keeps starting a story and stopping. Her laughs make him drop his head and spin his bottle more. The woman puts on more lipstick; I order another drink.

second or third hand

I keep drug addict hours. When the sun is out my eyes are blank, half-grey, and surrounded with sweat. My nails are kept long to remind myself I am scratching at the surface. My fourth or fifth borrowed car collects parking tickets in front of my building. I found myself standing alone on the corner two nights ago. The power was out so I could see the stars for the first time; the first time from this spot. I yelled and shook and surprised a stranger that wasn't there when I opened my eyes. I take my glasses off when I smoke those menthols my roommates scatter around. I trace a tag on the ground with one of my bare toes, skipping over the a in the middle. The money is all gone. Yawns bookend floods of creativity and resentment. I find churches to say I used to visit, forge receipts for tithes I make in my head, and keep the pastor's card in my wallet. My phone battery dies every twenty minutes. That is why I keep missing these calls. I write the phone number to the house I grew up in on all these liquor store receipts and but them in a green whiskey bottle.The hall closet holds a wedding dress and two vacuum cleaners. They have all been used once. Waves of sleep crash into the building. Sometimes I can stay up long enough to catch the last light go out. Then the hallway is dark. All of my furniture comes from a sober living house a few blocks over. It all has to be changed when they get a new addict. The manager gives me a heads up of what will be on the curb when. I got a necklace that way once. It was taped to the underside of a desk. It has the name of a gentleman on it. I got his desk when he couldn't take it anymore and stood on his chair with rope. I didn't get his chair. I have my own.

For someone, maybe

There is rain. And a large tree is missing. It has been weeks, but it isn't so much worth paying attention. Did it fall on you, your car, your wife, or your future ability to make a living? No. Move on. I only practice my speech for quitting my job while waiting to make this left. I also come up with plans for rapid evacuation and/or decent into hell. It is fine.

These are the perfect shoes for you. Enough lift to separate you from boys and enough angle to attract men. Those three months in that room with grayish walls and a nearly consistent empty bed taught you only how to keep from going back there. But nothing else. I can tell by the way you bite the lip of those unsuspecting girls you kiss.

A stomach turns and you can't tell if it is because you skipped a meal to keep the evening going or you are sick of the thoughts in your own head.

Decide to stop yawning because you aren't tired, you are just bored.

I was thinking about crying. Everyone turned off their phones. Everyone fell asleep, or is fucking. And I'm not doing either of those. At least tears mean something. Something shallow. Something forced. Something.

But fuck all that noise, right?

You can't even give away the parts of your life that matter. You can't fill the holes with an open casting call. You can't expect phone calls, thoughts, lust, desire, boredom, shots, baggies or the occasional peeping tom.

You can't keep fingers crossed for anything.

Everyone is mad.

Everyone is leaving.

Everyone will be gone on Christmas day.

So you'll sit on a couch and count ghost steps to beds and doors that get no use. You'll listen for the water to boil that will heat the noodles of your twenty cent Christmas dinner. You'll say something to no one at all. And the sun will set and you will got to bed.

(I can only imagine you occupying sixty-four seconds of space in my life. They are non-consecutive. No foreplay. No conversation. Just this list of how one would make it through an evening: 8 smiles. One on accident, more than a year ago, when no one knew anyone's name. 2 occasions in a spa and/or jacuzzi both times with no reasonable ambition or ability to control your actions. 1 car ride. 3 sloppy fucks. 1 and a half intense sessions of lovemaking (the half time interrupted by a shitty DJ and the constant looking over one's shoulder). 14 text messages, most from when you were too drunk to spell "miss", "honestly" and "soon" but 3 from a valley while I was stuck on a mountain. 2 sunrises, one with vomit, one without. And the rest of the time is just me putting your hair behind your ear so I can kiss you. I spent some time with a woman a while ago, and I put her hair behind her ear, and it just made me want to cut my fingers off so I never thought about doing it again.)

This is nowhere where I wanted it to be.

Sorry.