The start of the week...in a low-cloud storm of not quite cold enough to snow weather...
Mondays are reminders, like a bruise, of something that happened but we cannot quite remember. They linger like a bit of a hangover, a tightening across my mind. A fist.
They make me feel like I want to be anywhere else...they make me feel damp, clammy and rearranged.
They distract me, ignore me...minutes pile up like insects that won't go away...there, unmoving.
In the puddles and streetlights I see the grays and colors that cannot penetrate, the brake lights and taillights of slow moving and bored people...it stirs up fine dust of memories, sugar at the bottom of the tea glass...the long length of you coiled alongside of me, covers binding us and the warm and highly erotic touch of your skin upon mine.
It is raining again and it washes these things away.
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