Yet there's no one to beat you no one to defeat you except the thoughts of yourself feeling bad

Only one teaspoon of sugar

You were sitting idle, staring at the computer screen intently. I sat near your leg with a newspaper, pretending to read. Something was bothering you. Your eyes were distant, little beads of sweat formed on your nose.

She sauntered in, tall, quite big, a gentle smile playing around her lips. We looked up, startled. I refused to acknowledge her presence. I excused myself and went out for a walk. Bought my favourite coffee, smoked a cigarette. Humming a tune, I stepped on the sidewalk, crushing a few dry leaves under my feet.

 I wondered what you two were talking about.  Maybe you were looking at her, admiring the curve of her cheek. Maybe your fingers brushed against hers as you served her tea.  Maybe you were dissecting current world politics.

She looks at you lovingly, holding your gaze. You brush aside your meandering thoughts. You are determined to be in love with me.

I walk back slowly, impatiently pushing truant strands of hair away from my forehead.

You smile at me. “Where were you? I was waiting for you.” I look around the room, sniffing discreetly for a whiff of  her fragrance. You look at me strangely, “Are you okay?”, you ask, touching my chin.

I move away, a little ashamed, a little surprised.

Where is my mind

November, starkly different from the previous year, but December is almost here. The slightest hint of winter is disconcerting. Want more, want more.
No angst, so no rant. So zen i surprise and scare myself. Zen is an antagonist. I can never be zen.
Nightime collagemaking is the best thing in the world, post refrigerator raid.
Watched Dick Tracy yesterday. Such magnificent sets. Strange, nice.
Oh, and I love sparring with you. I feel alive, sparkly.

I wish I could write more, but no.


Ta.

What to believe, what ideas to discard? Too much meat to create one big fat lie and difficult to give up on your own fiction.
A few songs, a few movies, a few adored names, a few hastily read lines, and you were created.
Presently, you refuse to leave, presently wisps of your character collides violently with my well-loved, well-comforted, well-nourished soul.
Poor you, unaware, in your own little world.

Letter

Last winter, you and I were loafing around a cinema. We were warily glaring at cops and I remember you said something nice. We drank awful milky coffee and bumped into people we knew.
Last winter I met you for the first time. Liked you instantly. You reminded me of someone I adored, one of mine, who does not belong anymore, someone who decided not to belong. Decided I was too inconsistent to be her friend.
You and your schizophrenic conversations. Your tears, your drama. Your constant need to discard, to be merciless. I liked being with you however. I liked how lazy moments spun new thoughts, I liked eating out of boxes, I liked falling asleep suddenly. I liked our strange friendship, till you decided to push too hard.
And you, something about you I loved to love.  I liked our conversations, I liked your room floor. But you moved away with time and a precious piece of me.
I miss you, our pointlessness, our intense friendship, the blankets, the laughter. I'm grateful you're still around.
You, who I kissed one drunken night, without a thought, a care, and then cried guilty and heartsick. You don't exist.
Your grin disarms me even now. I dream of it sometimes, and wake up, alarmed. Then, as familiar noises fill my ears, I lie back with a sigh.
I miss you too, my brother, my own. And you little funny clown, with a golden heart.
You, young boy, you are wonderful, with your curly mop and songs and dreams, so similar to ours, old like the scattered us, stretched over these years.
You are special, you were perhaps meant to be mine. You who walked in like a storm on a still day - and I exploded. I need you, I want to be around you, to look at you, touch your nose, feel your gentle breathing against my skin, hold you as you thrash around in your sleep. I need to be your story, the most significant one.