cold floors.
it's late. or early, depending on the shape that your evening has taken.
the furnace in the house is broken,(his house not mine), leaving every inch
of each room at a breezy 30 degrees.
the timing, however, could not be more unfortunate -
as today even the devil himself (i'm sure) was wearing a fur lined parka.
the people at Minnegasco supplied the house with four small square space heaters
which will be the abode's only source of heat until late monday afternoon.
(four tiny heat fans and 16 bottles of peppermint schnapps.)
He smiled and ate day old pizza and asked me to kiss him.
you know that your becoming hooked on someone when you can't
bear the idea of letting them experience the most trivial of things on their own.
even the cold.
strange how the simplest things can become fantasies realized.
the only thing that i want now is to hear him signing while i soak in the bathtub.
we'll only argue about ridiculously forgettable things like which david ives play is best,
and Bernadette Peters true hair color.
i guess that is why i'm here... watching him sleep - writing meaningless prose,
occasionally becoming hypnotized by the blue light of the television..
and the tiny orange glare of four small space heaters.
because i can't fathom being anywhere else.
the furnace in the house is broken,(his house not mine), leaving every inch
of each room at a breezy 30 degrees.
the timing, however, could not be more unfortunate -
as today even the devil himself (i'm sure) was wearing a fur lined parka.
the people at Minnegasco supplied the house with four small square space heaters
which will be the abode's only source of heat until late monday afternoon.
(four tiny heat fans and 16 bottles of peppermint schnapps.)
He smiled and ate day old pizza and asked me to kiss him.
you know that your becoming hooked on someone when you can't
bear the idea of letting them experience the most trivial of things on their own.
even the cold.
strange how the simplest things can become fantasies realized.
the only thing that i want now is to hear him signing while i soak in the bathtub.
we'll only argue about ridiculously forgettable things like which david ives play is best,
and Bernadette Peters true hair color.
i guess that is why i'm here... watching him sleep - writing meaningless prose,
occasionally becoming hypnotized by the blue light of the television..
and the tiny orange glare of four small space heaters.
because i can't fathom being anywhere else.