Can you please call me when you’ve finished with this sketchy bullshit? 

I’m sick of sitting at home with a thumb up my ...nose... waiting for 
you to call. Or show up at my doorstep with an umbrella and a smile 
and a hug, so we can spend sublime hours of floating under covers, 
pulsating and sweating to the ethereal notes that you play in my mind. 
This is how I feel when the only beer I can find is a foamy residue 
in the bottom of a glass or a bottle. I’m trying to find a reason or 
a sign from you. Please stop speaking to me in tongues; instead, give
me your tongue and strangle me with words. Pour forth into me. Bite 
my earlobe and whisper answers to the questions that I ask you in my 
dreams. 

This is how I feel in the fall. Slowly drowning in green tainted drops 
dripping Drano down my throat; choking on repressed emotions. I don’t 
know what to write to you. And when I speak to you I fumble to find 
words. I wish I could recover you and stuff you into a bottle and drink 
you like the poison I hold in my hand… because I can already feel your 
smiles in my guts but I can’t tell if they are massaging them gently 
or twisting and ripping them into pieces. Maybe that’s why I bleed 
when I speak. Stop torturing me with ambiguity; neutrality. I seek 
signs. I can see them in your eyes sometimes, and I hear it in the words 
of your friends. I am not a fucking doctor; I shouldn’t have to kill you 
to prove to myself that you aren’t dead.

So wake the fuck up.

Spent the entire day locked inside staring at myself in a mirror, while 
simultaneously waiting and watching for that small grey demon to start 
singing to me. I flew helicopters and crashed them into walls, and ate 
undercooked noodles because I was too afraid to abandon the demon. I’m 
afraid of what I might miss if I did. I should have taken it with me, 
in my pocket, and gone to some distant planet to forget about you. But 
instead I wasted all of my fucking time levitating on top of clouds of 
vaporized self-pity and sweat. Cause there is no point in taking a shower. 

I have no fucking reason to brush my teeth or make my bed or smile. 

Another week goes by and I’m sucking wine down straight from the bottle. 
These nights are mostly spent in bed, sleeping. I try to think of you, 
but the dark purple and white strands of thought can’t quite project that
far; you’re sick on an island while I’m sick of drinking. Drinking to 
pass the time and passing time waiting for you to come sailing in on 
foamy waves, and bring the sunshine. Cause the only device that I can 
find to penetrate the fall is in-between awful slugs of whiskey on a 
bench, hiding from the mist and rain; waiting for trains... all I do 
is wait.  

How do ants keep themselves motivated? Such small stupid creatures can 
lift twice their weight; but an evolved being like me, created in God’s 
own image, can’t even leave this blackened cave. Can’t even enter the 
sunlight because it makes me feel like I’m too close to you. So keep 
spinning me around, but don’t forget to turn me over when you’re finished 
with me. Give me a fucking sign. I can’t even tell if you’re listening 
because nobody listens to records these days. Scrape me off these sterile 
white walls and let me drown in your colors -— smooth browns, blacks, 
and blues. 

Do you dream in color? 

Because I dream in shades of you…