Wicked Games

Another cold morning but the afternoon waxes and wanes in mild sunshine, it's a cruel game and you try your damnedest to laugh within the perimeters of the park. There's a bud here, if you don't look at it directly you can see it in the corner of your eye. The worlds around you collapse: in heartache, in cruel mortality, in subjective rejection. You think how grateful you are for these steady feet on the ground, these strong arms to hold as much of their weight as you can, but the truth is you haven't asked yourself how you are doing in ages. The truth is I haven't cried in months.

A dusty typewriter sits unused in the window. An evening stretches ahead without demands; they all lie in wait until morning because they like how the hangover clouds your judgment, drags rusty nails across your dry winter skin. You put a blank sheet of paper in the machine, roll it around, swig another glass of cheap sweet wine, and I begin to sing.