The Sordid Past

He’s picking up soon; he said that he’d call so we’re under the moon and we’re trying to stall. Crunched cash is passed back to dark backseat fingers while hungry ears wait for vibrations or ringers to break through the haze of late nineties rock. Each minute takes all of the strength of the clock to elapse and mover closer to brimming full bags, soon to be hidden in last winter;s rags by inside stitched pockets and layers of fabric, soon to be lit, soon to be magic. I’ll call him again but I don’t want to pry because he isn’t even my usual guy and so much is just waiting and unneeded smokes. After, oh an hour, we repeat the same jokes to a brand new cd that got picked out by me.

I know that you’re tired, but we should get higher.


~ by perfectionatrix on February 23, 2010.

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