It's early, I'm drinking. Drinking and listening to Rufus Wainwright
. Drinking wine no less. Am I sure I'm straight?
The shower's on. I'm wasting water. It's dark here, in my apartment. I'm thinking about last night
. I'm thinking about your face
. I'm thinking
tonight, right now, this second. Tired of the rootless-ness of sentiment. Exhausted by the threatening promise of promiscuity
; yours and mine. Unable to face the faithlessness of each other. I'm tired.
, really. Do I have a choice? It's everywhere; cheap and simple. A joke or two, an inappropriate glance
, and there I am in a stranger's bedroom. Just the idea makes my shoulders ache, all that robotic fucking. It's a painkiller
, fear-killer, a narcotic
. I don't feel you there any more
My choice is simple
; accept this fright and integrate it somehow, or assassinate my fear
with someone else's sweat.
Maybe the wine will have an answer for me