- There was something about how his tongue rolled off his teeth that begged me to listen to what his nostalgic deprived morality had to say now, of all times. I brought a finger to hang him on that one thought, let him dangle a minute as I get my lighter that had made love to my jean pocket in an attempt to mimic me--to become human: dirty and monochromatic. I cuffed my fingers around my lip's handle to savor the taste before the smell, relish the fruits of the stronger breath and weigh it against the stale stench that seeks to swallow the room, saving me for last--let me live among my trash a little longer.
I stomached the odor and then relieved him from his hook; his tongue rolled over each word, his back hunched and his hands went busy at relaying the story to my eyes, my ears were simply not enough and my mouth was occupied.
Cigarettes disgust me; I can hear the gurgle of their sludge slither down my throat, clearing vital acids and thinners for their renovations, making homes, renting rooms, breeding in the bowl of my chest. I would sooner wish to devour a cockroach and have him fuck his lover in my heart and curl in between my ribs to sleep with the door locked and his arms warm with her trying to crawl into him, than the stark black ink that bleeds from death's coil.
Dmitry was still rummaging through his thoughts and vocal vibrations to show me how much he enjoyed the contours of my body, the lines formed by the shoulders we peeled into light, the ankles we crashed together. How picturesque I was amid the smoke here.
'We live here' I said, breathing into him.
He came forward and held me under his thoughts, rolled me under him, tricking my contours to be wrapped up under his outline; squared away for another Christmas that we escaped to have a gray, smoky, broken room make us feel more colourful and heavy; I do not feel like floating to the top of the room when the ghost of that smell haunts the only sky I see.
I burnt myself with the ass of my cigarette just above me knee and laughed. A good sting was what I needed after this attack on myself.
'I live here' I said, throwing up laughter at his exotic build twisting under me, to hold me warm. 'I won't leave.'
I coughed at him and wiped his smirk off his face with a small kiss to his cheek.
He stared into me, saw my cigarette-bloodstained walls I called a body and he eased himself into me, included himself in the sticky collage, and cleared my mind of doubts.
I dropped the cigarette to the floor to keep the dust particles entertained while I busied myself with petty things. Our connection was petty, he loved me and I did not see why but we lived in that rickety apartment until the date they chose for its demolition: stuck.
'We had to move' his diction filled with more r's and w's and their holy children than our stale language wrote.
'I know. I'm sorry we could not stay.'
'I am too.'
'I'm sorry we cannot dent the off-white mattress with our knees and dress in the sheets we find in the closet in the hall.'
'I wish we could have turned over the floor and torn up the furniture-'
'All but the bed'
'-And paint it a better gray'
'Maybe even a colour.'
'Yes, maybe. Make it our own gray-our own colour.'
'Anything but cigarette gray.'
His hand, made of a stone so rare it is gentle and warm to every shoulder it touched, perched on my right side, held me close as he stood a person away.
We watched in our jeans and long shirts as the men dawned in yellow caps tore our home away with their wrecking balls and cranes. I watched knowing well I had left my lighter next to the bed.
The minute before we left for the funeral, we shared another coil and then threw in between the mattresses we stacked; painting the sheets orange and blue with the flame we bred. We murdered our nest so we would not let it die at the hands of cold machines we did not wield.
It died, as did we--watching our tree fall to the Earth. It made quite the crash and the ashes still dwell among sludge and cockroaches: content with boarding with organs and partaking in the slumber-less nights when I wrap myself under Dmitry's tongue as it plays its nostalgic lullaby.