Sunday Morning

It was early on a Sunday morning. 4:27 as the clock ticked away from light beer and heavy blunts.

I had stayed awake for several reasons. No one had bothered to turn off the light yet, and the fluorescent was burning into my retinas. My roommate was watching returns of Blue Mountain State. I had napped earlier, sometime after the concert but before I knew what to make of it all. Lying down would have meant thinking of the girl and her friend whose bed was always open.

The last time I wore those jeans, with small hands tracing black waves. You're glancing at your white watch and you only have so long to be teased.

I'm waiting for a long car ride in the afternoon, as we burn papers and step on forgotten drinks.

Didn't we decide that no feelings would be involved? I'm retracing to a quote, about how no battle are ever won. They're not even fought; they only reveal to us our own folly and despair.

I want to write my fictions, but where to start and how to frame it is too puzzling, at this time, at this place in life.

All she wanted was a friend to listen, but the reciprocal was too damaged and already gone.



I'm tracing the scars back to a summer day. As fireworks beckon, as I'm reliving picnics and pools, a boy with California good looks blows smoke into your face and takes away that burden you've been carrying. You can't even recall his last name, but what does it matter, anyhow? We're reaching the peak of apathy.

As all our music cries out in the name of love, we close our eyes and let the bass reverberate through us, finding passion in the vibrations. You've reached a lawless place where love does not exist, except for in our memories and fictions.