reflective light 5.4% ALC. BY VOL.

Love becomes matter of factly after sitting in the lower jaw for so long. Until you find yourself duskly whispering across phone lines, "what does it feel like..." to mourn your independence. Scandal, scandal, love is boring enough to be remembered, everything else is mourned.

She touches herself below the sheets and sets the mood by thinking on mister got-away and imagines him staring over the lap of one and into the cleavage of another. Like jar life, where everything is skewed and smelling like fermentation.

Deprived of contact you sit cross legged, song on repeat. Starting one job to abandon it for some other endeavor, making checklists in your head that will never make it to paper let alone fruition. The apple and celery made up for the cookies, third beer and exacto blade balanced between lips while measuring 5 by 3.

It's a mad scientist evening, Scars garnished with orange slices, decorative angst and loss of ownership. The road and conversation robbed me of home and place in time. Until I was all at once visiting past lovers, recieving bruises and injuries, from those who have since forgotten and awkwardly avert the eyes, when meeting me unexpectedly, happily next to blonde and alcoholic tendencies, the present wrapped in brown bag, no bow.

I've got a new place. He's on the stage or driving me home from kisses that fall into the millions. Matter of factly, stating like the future wrote itself decades before, the names of children, the pets in houses, keys that type themselves into novels and complications between ambilical cord and holidays.

I'll leave you for failing traditions. I'll drown in the vague interpretations of christmas mornings, where the biggest travesty is in the fact that dunkin' donuts isn't open and we can't get our coffee fix.

Fleas. They don't make a tiny gold pin for success. But I'm laughing like its obvious, you're nothing and I'm going to make something of these pieces, 5 by 3 and so on. Chop up everything the knife is so good and set the trash on fire.

I prayed the other night. Like therapy. Like god might listen. And love is matter of factly, after so long in the bottom jaw. Until people are just stories and I've got nothing but fear in my belly, repeating wisely in the cold, "the only thing I know, is that I know nothing at all."

I read their secrets, even though I wasn't suppose to. He wanted you for a mate, I damned you then and caused all your split ends. Static clinging to sewn up second rate sentiments, I laughed and made black magic voo-doo dolls from their trusted treasures. I've got ammo to spare and no one knows they are at war. The perfect stragedy runs underground, beneath trenchs and tunnels and sets up base in the center of the earth.

I want them to stare, mouth to mouth. Whispering scandals and questions until love moves up from the lower jaw and settles on the tongue, talented and shoved down on open zipper pants. This was the time to do it. Moan until its hard enough to... end.

I twitch in the aftermath.

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