Photo by X.A. Medina (http://lepoet.tumblr.com/)
She left and with her went the warm air, it was as if she bottled it all up and took it with her west, or south, or wherever it was she went. In her void was a coldness, the kind that left your bones aching and your skin chapped. However, like always with the cold air came the warm bodies. But with the warm bodies comes the fleeting feelings, humdrum games and bottomless insecurities. Oh, you’re left handed. I like that. What else do you like about me besides my tits? My ex was a writer, but he was also a painter. Do you paint? Yes let’s get a drink. Wait, sorry something came up. Your bed is comfortable. I feel hungover, I drank too much last night. Can you get me a glass of water? It’s so dark in your room in the morning, I like it. How do I get out of here? The bodies left, and he was alone, his thoughts and ideas bumping against his skull, trying to get out but unable to find the exit. The keyboard was full of letters but his head was lacking the words. Words without story was just noise. Noise and static. Salt and pepper on the television, the internet calling to him, “waste your time on me man, let me kill your creativity. Allow me to suck you dry of your thoughts and ideas. I will leave you pale and sickly. Don’t live your life, pass the precious time on here with me.” He closed his computer and opened his notebook. His pen tapped the paper, dotting it with microscopic ants. He needed to get out of his place. Into the outside world, but he had no money, and the air was cold, and his bed was warm. Darkness came early, but the ideas stayed away, huddled outside his apartment with the homeless men, standing above an affectionate vent, unable or unwilling to move. He searched for them in the city, but all he found was cool kids in warm bars with empty thoughts. Life was stuck on pause, he thought about the plane that didn’t crash but he was certain it would eventually, either with or without him. Ducking and diving hidden ghosts. A flying tin coffin. Fate and luck, and the fragility of life. The thin dotted line, that if you timed it wrong, would step not onto the dash but into the white, and fall between the crack down to the abyss below. Plunging beyond the flashing lights and the dance music that played silently in the background. Chrome and gold bikes sat in the basements of their Brooklyn apartments, gathering dust, while silver scorpions basked in the sun, mute, patiently waiting for dinner to arrive. His view became distorted like the fish-eye of the peephole to your life, until you and him no longer lived the same life, just parallel lives that would never touch again.
