My eyes are open and I am seeing you across the room through the light of a half opened bathroom door and the heavy vinyl curtains. We always did hotels right. Being here on the bottom floor, the smell of the river just before it dips under the unsuspecting city, I am consumed by a wish to hold you here, to relive some sordid fantasy, a dream I once had. But I am older and more pathetic, fitting in here among the desperately desolate. The man walking in the office and looking for work. Fifteen years of maintenance in Chicago doing him little good now as he pleads for the chance to prove he is a hard worker. Everyone is all smiles.

Metal stairs leading upwards towards cheap convenience story beer, beneath them, the remains of teenage weekend excursions, condom wrappers, pill boxes, glass bottles that once contained vodka or gin. Someone stumbles down.

I am distanced from my younger self. Unable to relate to the loudness of voices and the deliberate need for destruction. Still I could kiss your face for hours. If I am always about confessing my indiscretions, it is because they are less burdensome than the lies.

You are reaching for your clothes, silhouetted by cabinets and gray light. The fridge making that ticking sound over and over, waking us with wonder, annoyance and frustration. While we slept, the room around us dissolved, dissipated itself around us like a blanket, untrustworthy and cold.

I am always contradiction personified, not out to destroy everyone, just you.

You can always bring me back to sitting across from you eating garlic and drinking beer. It is your gift, your super power. Distracting memories that keep me occupied while you suck out whats left. Here you are, stealing a few moments of clarity, loving me in spite of my insistence. Again with this cleverness, repeating of words, lines and images and we end up sentenced to this over again. I can bring you t-shirts and swim wear. I can let you go away and burden someone else with your intent.

We can run the streets. We can choke on the colors.

About fenster

There are some who call me, Tim?

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