chriskaasi

This is hell or maybe its Florida or maybe Im in no mood to talk about moods and the locations of my local pains and their unwanted distance its definitely dark and since I know that much I know Im on a roll a hard-knock path to enlightenment through an empty building thats pitch-black by eight as a cold rain taps out heart-felt love songs like piano plinks in a night time abyss. I drove to the airport I parked at the airport I stood at the airport and stared into her eyes told her I loved her felt her against me that strange grasping hug and her backpack makes her feel like a little kid being sent off to school but no one likes school and my heart is pounding cause I want nothing more than to keep her with me for ever and ever but this is reality this is life and in life people have plans that dont always jive with your own plans and part of me wonders if Ive ever used the word jive in a serious sense before. Shes so beautiful fading through the airport doors into that giant glass oblivion off to her own existence of planes and waiting and planes and moving and hotels and driving and parents and stuff and phone calls from me, now on the other side of her life no longer flesh and blood just a vibration of sound transmitted through satellites and technology and reformed inside her ear a soft whisper sent to represent me while the real me dies a thousand deaths on the other side of nowhere or maybe its hell or maybe its Florida I dont know cause I was stuck in traffic behind a silver minivan at dusk watching the rain on the windshield, digging the irony that Im stuck behind a silver minivan, but then I realized that only she would get that joke and shes in an airport waiting to board a plane now Im sure this is hell.

Im in hell with a heavy crushing pain in the center of my chest, sitting at a computer in a dark office with a single fluorescent light flickering and fading into my sickness. The rest of the building is black the rest of the city is black the rest of the world is black. Black is the colour of my candor as my mind wanders back to our conversation about sex stories and notebooks and magazines and all the things Ill eventually say about her in a secret code playing out some endless cosmic mystery in the middle of the night, trying so desperately to give her the story she deserves just one fucking line worthy of her unfathomable existence. I laid on my right side last night with her back pressed up against me and my hand tracing the soft line of her hips, past her stomach and up to her (overwhelmingly) full breasts rising and falling in that sleepy undulation. I looked past the lust and saw through the horrors of a million unspeakable acts past the sick fucking eroticism of human atrocities shes an angel in whores clothing a child passing herself off as a temptress the very essence of purity innocence personified. Shes pearl-white in the moonlight.

And Im in hell at the end of the world.
WTF, mate?