Inscrutable glasses wear fluorescent glares, make it hard to determine the direction of stares that could be to me or the boy that’s adjacent, could be a trick of the light or arrangement of chairs built on desks and rows made for walking, passing out papers, distance for coughing. Or maybe I’m right and the signal’s been flashed – passed to me like so many fistfuls of cash after school on the job where she never stops off while she’s alone at home, pissed that I won’t call. And if that wasn’t all – we’re midway through fall. It’s dark out by 5 – dark when I drive, dark coming come – I turn lights on inside and drink a quick six to get you off my mind. You’re still there – but quiet, no new thoughts to riot amongst memories of paystubs and violence, only a dull unplaced ache in my jeans that’s familiar, expected, really just means I am all by myself and a flat screen TV. So full of bluster, running out of steam.

~ by perfectionatrix on December 17, 2010.

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