14.Dec.2001

alone here with me

--

I want the land and you alone here with me

Volume. Exorbitant. There are footsteps and voices behind me but they are covered with Nitzer Ebb. I close my eyes to the monitor and type, a bloodletting of chords, dischord, harsh beats. December. Disconcerting tenderness, laughter outside the musical universe in my ears. The hours drain. Our own world.

My bra strap cut into my shoulder and he shot eyes at me for two seconds before disappearing. I leaned over the rocking chair in the living room, flash of the other side, white carpeting, a different world, gaze caught and held, dissolving into the turn of the clouds. Two sets of eye-lids. Smeared lipstick, suspended by the weight of my fantasies, adjacent to my discomfort.

"Are you coming back later?"

"Probably not."

The shift begins in a different light, matching the shadows on the concrete, distance elongates, subtly reduced to visions and exhaustion.

I long for the days when everything wasn't counterfeitly secured, when everything wasn't a game, where the cosmic shift pulled the tide warmly over consequence, and the sun stirred into the horizon. I long for the days when pretense was oblivion, and I didn't pick mascara out of my lashes, and I didn't falter.

All time. And the rest is just waiting. And the rest is just noise.

--

time & machine