we're smoking your mother's cigarettes. in the front room. the bathroom. the back room i've suddenly lost my dress in the non-colour color of your kitchen. and the hazy aftermath of rioja. and pornographically-bad-bathwater sangria. i can't say that it's necessarily cold in here. or that we're over-sexed. but the way you thew that switch. just now. the cold sideways way of the way that left eye sneaks into my bones. leaves me longing for duvets. and just before sun-fall breathing. skin. help yourself, he says. without saying anything at all. and i. do.

i started a post here, lately, about how i used to have words for this place about razor blades and wrecking balls and rooms filled with [ ] and other r words that sometimes become too hard stuck.

tonight we're smoking your mother's cigarettes.

and i.


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