Spider Cocktails Lilt In Icy Hands
Cast down your shadowed eyes he tolerates, barely but patiently, as luncheonette counters reflect polished shards of spit and grease into his own. Your voice is an echo, ones and zeros in a noxious void, and it's gotten beyond what he can endure. A lithe backless twirl in paisley starshine, you will die to him this day. In a moment. A moment of punishment and penance. Of dry aggregate and circles and dandelions and mayhem. You imitate something real, but we are not what we seem. He isn't very good at living, at breathing or kissing you, at walking down brick-clad alleyways in the dark. Isn't very good at bravery or love. Eyeliner heavy on lids, suit starched, your letter, in sweaty hands says "no," the paper wet from the rain, solemn and binding. He looks to the floor, looks beyond you to faux marble, slippery, running in all directions - past present future - gleaming in the fluorescent sunset slipped through dirty windows, double-glazed so no screams will be heard over the rain drenching neon into the pavement.
He isn't very good in person.
He isn't what he seems.
15 May 2014