It's early, I'm drinking. Drinking and listening to
Rufus Wainwright. Drinking wine no less.
Am I sure I'm straight?
The shower's on. I'm wasting water. It's dark here, in my apartment.
I'm thinking about last night. I'm thinking about
your face.
I'm thinking.
I'm
weary tonight, right now, this second. Tired of the rootless-ness of sentiment. Exhausted by the threatening promise of
promiscuity; yours and mine. Unable to face the faithlessness of each other. I'm tired.
It's
MAD, really. Do I have a choice? It's everywhere; cheap and simple. A joke or two,
an inappropriate glance, and there I am in a stranger's bedroom. Just the idea makes my shoulders ache, all that robotic fucking. It's a
painkiller, fear-killer, a
narcotic.
I don't feel you there any more.
My choice is simple; accept this fright and integrate it somehow, or
assassinate my fear with someone else's sweat.
Maybe the wine will have an answer for me.