This May is a phlegmy cough, spiked with cold gusts. The flowers, the lilac bushes, skulk like bums under the barrage of crappy weather; I am not at all pleased. My nights are crowded with blurry huddling, hoping I don’t wake the Boy with my stressed-out insomnia. When he stumbles to the door of my cave, naked and yawning, plainly worried why I’d leave bed, guilt hunches my shoulders; he could catch me masturbating and it wouldn’t embarrass me, but this? I’m neglecting my nocturnal duty as heat sink and body pillow.
I like these hours – they make me honest. Too honest, the paranoia wishes to share. I’m addicted to the mysticism of 4am, the atonal yip of coyotes [so close to the city], lukewarm tap water, finally being Left the Fuck Alone. So much psychic noise during the day, phone calls, text messages, seeing if we’re out of milk.
Come to the dark side…you may have the sundogs, but we have the stars.
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