Heh. But I thought here and there that I could write. AND BOY HOWDY DID I EVER WRITE! I never said it was good.
(subbes can't read this)
The coffee made two hours ago is still sitting here, nearing boil
I have a book about half finished waiting for eyes to read it.
And there's someone I should be getting back to
But that'll wait.
It will have to.
I have nothing to do.
An impressive and awe inspiring amount of nothing to do.
The nothing is coming out of my pores and soaking me down to the fingertips.
Little rivulets of nothing go coursing over the down on my arms.
And travelling from my scalp to the hollow between my shoulder blades.
Expanding puddles of nothing soaking my socks and this patch of carpet.
And it's all mine This growing flood.
Mine to dance in... to move in.
And when the waters reach my swaying hips I will lay back
Breathe deep, find a level in the deluge
Bathe and float in my own aching hollow
My own special empty
My very own nothing.
Kissing your cool lips
And your unexpected warmth
licking my tongue
Claiming posessions of the hollows
Drawing a finger across your neck
your seamless perfection-
The weight of you
of your mouth on mine.
splashing inviting glamour
My knowing lover
My burning friend.
that was called "vodka"