A Magazine Launch Party

This is a building smaller than me – the girls aren’t my type, the drinks aren’t too cheap. It probably took longer to come than I’ll stay – but I’m drunk, it’s okay; I don’t mind the wait with the fat young latinas and alphabet bros. I don’t mind at all because it’s fresh and not cold and at least I’m not just decaying at home with a half-finished fifth and an unwritten poem. No, this is like living (it has to be close). You are still missing, but more like a ghost in a building I work in or scent on my clothes – clung to a collar I found hidden low that you left me intentionally, solid as stone.

Or something, I told you – the change helps you shrink. It allows me my precious small space to think and remember my smarttrip and pick up my feet and when that doesn’t work – to drink.

Nobody leaves me notes anymore – they’re so sure I would read each letter with scorn, return it half-burned and the other half, torn.

But I am not so sharp all the time. At night I unfocus like uncontacted eyes.

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~ by perfectionatrix on February 19, 2011.

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