I don't have it in me. To say that I wanted you to kiss me when you came home from work. To not ruin everything. Like I do. Always do. But I already did. Like that night at George's when I made everything wild. And I made myself sleep for several hours on the floor the bathroom. Just out of reach of reality. The truth really remains. That I shouldn't be drinking wine or smoking cigarettes with this unknown factor between us. That there is no matter of flight plans or late dinners or yellow tails that can deliver us up from this reality that grasps at my throat and drags me down hard. Like a fist thrown swiftly into the throat. I want these words to make you stop short. Make you hold your breath. But the wanting is simply the reason that they can never be what I want. I can't want anything into fruition. I am merely this. Words on a page that move like ants out of my head. Without reason or plan. I want syllables. Can you hear me? I want them to stay. To stop moving. But they don't. Like respiration. Like the way my eyes won't stop seeing. I'm going to try. For fuck's sake. I wish only that I could.