It feels like fall, today.
These days no one remembers I like my toast well done. I'm finishing the Gatorade flavors no one likes and I'm craving a long hot bubble bath like it's the best vacation I will ever have. I need color. I need loud music. I need distraction. I need sleep, as always and I needed it last month and the month before that and now with critical mass staring me down I feel as if suddenly I don't need anything, and everything is weightless, unimportant and shallow.
Come inside, Neamhchiontach. I can fix this. His voice is soft and low. It sends a shiver down my spine, as always, but I shake my head.
Look at it.
Magnificent, isn't it? But he's not looking at the dead sea or the live wind. I know this because his eyes are boring holes into my soul. He craves it like I crave that hot bath, like I used to crave the sea before I suddenly arrived at this place where I momentarily don't love him, don't feel anything, don't care. Don't want. Don't look. Don't breathe, Bridget, for he's close enough to touch and you'll fucking care when you get burned again.
These days no one remembers I like my toast well done. I'm finishing the Gatorade flavors no one likes and I'm craving a long hot bubble bath like it's the best vacation I will ever have. I need color. I need loud music. I need distraction. I need sleep, as always and I needed it last month and the month before that and now with critical mass staring me down I feel as if suddenly I don't need anything, and everything is weightless, unimportant and shallow.
You're stuck in my head and I can't get you out of itI chased one cool evening with another and I can't remember what day it is. I'm down to reminding myself to breathe, certain my heartbeat no long keeps time, no longer keeps me alive and I feel like the wind is the only thing that matters. Not even the sea, for the sea is the wind's bath, a discarded, long-cold empty vessel full of discarded memories, drowned in a fit of impulsive, necessary change.
Come inside, Neamhchiontach. I can fix this. His voice is soft and low. It sends a shiver down my spine, as always, but I shake my head.
Look at it.
Magnificent, isn't it? But he's not looking at the dead sea or the live wind. I know this because his eyes are boring holes into my soul. He craves it like I crave that hot bath, like I used to crave the sea before I suddenly arrived at this place where I momentarily don't love him, don't feel anything, don't care. Don't want. Don't look. Don't breathe, Bridget, for he's close enough to touch and you'll fucking care when you get burned again.