I am sitting in water far too cold
Around me dances far too many candles
I feel like a corpse looking at his watery final mass
I am smoking far too many cigarettes,
as I tend to do
I carelessly flick ashes onto my bathroom floor, beside me, and am only slightly alarmed to hear them sizzle.
It is in these cliche, lonely moments that my mind drifts.
I remember sitting in many watery graves with your exposed back resting firmly against my heavy chest.
My breathing broken and uneven.
I shift slowly to the right
and a cascade of my cleansed conscious breaches the levy and runs down to the floor.
This is why ashes live such short lives when severed at the tip.
What could make my scene set better?
and I remember the far too warm glass of wine to my left.
It has been playing a silent game of
"When will you remember me,"
even though its baritone colors clash hard red against the white tiled walls of my fiber glass coffin.
I take a far too long look at the glass in my graspe,
before it begins its hasty adventure to my liver.
This moment is far too dramatic,
but I usually am.
I am a sorrow addict, a waxing romantic, and right now I would **** for a fix.
The open window above my head lets in autumn air
that excites my dancing candles and they whip up into a proper frenzy
and I wonder if in moments like these, where the setting and scene have conspired to give me all the hopeful imagery that only perfect circumstances can achieve,
if I should feel happy or at peace.
But I only feel far too lonely.
It is this amazing moment that it dawns on me that my life lacks better....
Better what, I do not know.
My cigarette finally reaches the end of its journey
and while trying to throw it into the trash, wayward water tag-alongers betray my trust and extinguish part of my candlelight army.
I strain to obtain my strikes so I can breath fiery life into my graveside soldiers when a chain that is connected to the cork, that is supporting my frigid funeral pyre
pulls out of its job duty and further works towards ending what was once warm water started.
Spent water slowly exits stage center
and I remember sitting in a far too cold bathtub with you.
Resting my cheek between your shoulder blades as we gave away the filth of our day.
Your head was resting on your knees and a lit cigarette makes its final pilgrimage towards your water clogged hand.
The candles then, also went out far too soon.
I stand up, grab my towel, and once again wrap warmth around me.
I look into the mirror and see the far too, far away look in my eyes.
I inhale deeply, close my eyes and try to shake the ghost from behind my eye lids.
Whispering pieces of a former life beckon to hold me back....
And far too predictably i hold on.