rigadoon

I am searching for the right words, the ones to tell you what to do, what I want. I was never good at that: demands. I listen to the silence of this room, my breathing echoes, resounds, sending this noise into easily bruised flesh. Will I be left wanting again? Will I be left to decipher these codes you have left, scattered about my bed, woven into my sheets? I do not feel up to this tonight. I do not feel up to this.



This discourse is ceaseless, unending, self-perpetuating. I am talking in my sleep. I am talking to myself, to an empty room, to four walls of silence.