Anonymous
I was waiting for him in the couch. Waiting for him to get home, so that we could both drink whiskey and smoke like chimneys. I was waiting for him, and that rush that he gave me- I dont have a name for it. It was mostly his demeanor: the charisma. All I know is that outside, in that tiny square of a deck, we drank a shit load of whiskey & very little coke- cigarettes, whatever brand they were, and shared a plethora of thoughts.
I could say they were dreams, but Id be lying. It was just two people- two common people, commenting on what was, what could be, and how shitty it all is, and whats more: how shitty it will always be. No matter what.
I was sitting there on that couch, waiting for that moment again. To sit in that deck chair across from him, with a skimpy tank top and no bra, and a pair of boxer shorts, messy hair and no makeup. What he ever saw in me, Ill never know...
I would sit across from him and then we would proceed to speak about our meaningless days. Drink in one hand- smoke in the onther. I, always the self-councious about how I looked, acted or asked- and he, concious about those things that I could never figure out, but were the most sincere and voulnerable of thoughts and feelings. Funny how I thought that my words would never really hurt him. We would share comfortable silences if the topic was deeper than that of the futile day- of everyday life.
I once told him that his hands were beautiful, because they didnt remind me of anything. And they didnt. I just imagined them being rapped around my neck with a tight grip while he was inside of me.
After many hardships, I find myself sitting on the same shitty couch, waiting for him. Waiting for that effervecence. Of him not changing who he was, and that I would always have something to learn from him.
I remember watching him sleep... wondering if I would share that for the rest of my life, but not being able to make that kind of commitment.
I always wondered if there would be anyone to witness my last breath. Or anyone to remember me after I die. But this isnt about being remembered. This is about two artists sitting around, drinking whiskey, fucking, and hopefully making some worthwhile art.
Now, sitting on this smelly couch, I wonder if it was more about love and death, and not the common love and hate. From a different perspective, I wonder: is it two in the same?
Im sure no one can define death any more than they can define love. But Im sure we can all define hate...
Why is death taking so long?
Im sitting in this couch, waiting for it.
Mr. Dankrubis- your comments and your shit-write is always welcomed. For what its worth, I miss you.
p.s. Im drinking alot of your whiskey... and there is no one else I can imagine seeing me take my last breath other than you. But I dont know if that is what we can call love.
I was waiting for him in the couch. Waiting for him to get home, so that we could both drink whiskey and smoke like chimneys. I was waiting for him, and that rush that he gave me- I dont have a name for it. It was mostly his demeanor: the charisma. All I know is that outside, in that tiny square of a deck, we drank a shit load of whiskey & very little coke- cigarettes, whatever brand they were, and shared a plethora of thoughts.
I could say they were dreams, but Id be lying. It was just two people- two common people, commenting on what was, what could be, and how shitty it all is, and whats more: how shitty it will always be. No matter what.
I was sitting there on that couch, waiting for that moment again. To sit in that deck chair across from him, with a skimpy tank top and no bra, and a pair of boxer shorts, messy hair and no makeup. What he ever saw in me, Ill never know...
I would sit across from him and then we would proceed to speak about our meaningless days. Drink in one hand- smoke in the onther. I, always the self-councious about how I looked, acted or asked- and he, concious about those things that I could never figure out, but were the most sincere and voulnerable of thoughts and feelings. Funny how I thought that my words would never really hurt him. We would share comfortable silences if the topic was deeper than that of the futile day- of everyday life.
I once told him that his hands were beautiful, because they didnt remind me of anything. And they didnt. I just imagined them being rapped around my neck with a tight grip while he was inside of me.
After many hardships, I find myself sitting on the same shitty couch, waiting for him. Waiting for that effervecence. Of him not changing who he was, and that I would always have something to learn from him.
I remember watching him sleep... wondering if I would share that for the rest of my life, but not being able to make that kind of commitment.
I always wondered if there would be anyone to witness my last breath. Or anyone to remember me after I die. But this isnt about being remembered. This is about two artists sitting around, drinking whiskey, fucking, and hopefully making some worthwhile art.
Now, sitting on this smelly couch, I wonder if it was more about love and death, and not the common love and hate. From a different perspective, I wonder: is it two in the same?
Im sure no one can define death any more than they can define love. But Im sure we can all define hate...
Why is death taking so long?
Im sitting in this couch, waiting for it.
Mr. Dankrubis- your comments and your shit-write is always welcomed. For what its worth, I miss you.
p.s. Im drinking alot of your whiskey... and there is no one else I can imagine seeing me take my last breath other than you. But I dont know if that is what we can call love.
a)seems to voruyestic for even me.
&
b)i tend to put off posting to anyone's journals and then post to everyone's all at once. and i do this alphabetically. and you're alias begins with a 'v'. if your alias began with a 'c' i swear, you'd catch me right in the middle of my stride.
sorry.