Down to the Filter
Down to the Filter. Tenth Doctor/Rose, 533 words. Light R. After Journey's End, here there be angst.
Pale smoke curls into the lungs of the pub,
tickling patrons with a whimsical dance
while tequila scrapes through the haze of people,
feeling like salt
where my hearts used to be.
Lime flavored sin makes its home
in the crook of my elbow,
a splash of a fallen drink even though
Earth liquor is never strong enough.
Pale smoke curls into the lungs of the pub,
tickling patrons with a whimsical dance
while tequila scrapes through the haze of people,
feeling like salt
where my hearts used to be.
The raucous noise is only a din
and the wallpaper is peeling away,
old and whizened turquoise damask.
Drag deep, the burn clawing its way down
into my belly.
Does smoke find anything there
that is not hollow?
The fag's cherry does not answer
but just keeps burning, like I
burned her down beyond her filter
and left her.
I still feel the sand
stuck
between my lashes,
the grit cutting in when I see places
she isn't.
Tap the ash.
The lovely blonde bartender leans in
dark roots
full, glossed lips she licks for me
and the smell
of strawberry.
Lily, she says.
Flowers. All these flowers in my life and
they never last
on the galley table.
John.
They are almost close
enough,
these blonde women that feel
like someone humming a half remembered melody
in the shower, vaguely the right sound
but I know,
I know, it never is.
I take her from the pub to its alley
and open her up
against the ochre brick,
clamp a hand to her mouth because I don't want to know
that the tremors of her voice are different. Don't want
her accent or moans or
this.
Don't want
what Rose would say,
would die again and again
to hear her say it.
I don't let this beautiful blonde thing
who has a soft spot for lonely men
and drags wicked red nails along my neck
take off my clothes or speak or
see
it's too intimate but not
as much as breakfast, jam and coffee and burnt toast
with Rose.
Where would she want to go today?
I could show her star whales,
she'd lay a hand creased with love on its great body
across the backbone of space and time
and my belly would flutter and I would think
yes.
I dig to bruise flesh but the girl does not protest,
is too young to understand how nothing satisfies.
I sprinkle my nose with pollen
dipping in her folds
and the devil should help me but she
smells of roses and
this other name is not actually
as sweet.
I think of New Earth and the light clarity of apple grass
and that tongue between her teeth,
Oh I love this,
the bravest girl I ever met and how
she never has to die, now.
This girl is whimpering and flushed so I
come into her, leave her there,
I leave like I already left.
Light another fag in the rain blocks later
and walk and walk and
walk away. I wish for Rose's strawberry but I
can't escape the musk of unfamiliar arousal
and even Earth's rain does not clean
or forgive me.
It feels like high time this old dog was put down.
Close my eyes, feel the rain,
inhale the stink of age and history
and yes, it is
time.
Pale smoke curls into the lungs of the pub,
tickling patrons with a whimsical dance
while tequila scrapes through the haze of people,
feeling like salt
where my hearts used to be.
Lime flavored sin makes its home
in the crook of my elbow,
a splash of a fallen drink even though
Earth liquor is never strong enough.
Pale smoke curls into the lungs of the pub,
tickling patrons with a whimsical dance
while tequila scrapes through the haze of people,
feeling like salt
where my hearts used to be.
The raucous noise is only a din
and the wallpaper is peeling away,
old and whizened turquoise damask.
Drag deep, the burn clawing its way down
into my belly.
Does smoke find anything there
that is not hollow?
The fag's cherry does not answer
but just keeps burning, like I
burned her down beyond her filter
and left her.
I still feel the sand
stuck
between my lashes,
the grit cutting in when I see places
she isn't.
Tap the ash.
The lovely blonde bartender leans in
dark roots
full, glossed lips she licks for me
and the smell
of strawberry.
Lily, she says.
Flowers. All these flowers in my life and
they never last
on the galley table.
John.
They are almost close
enough,
these blonde women that feel
like someone humming a half remembered melody
in the shower, vaguely the right sound
but I know,
I know, it never is.
I take her from the pub to its alley
and open her up
against the ochre brick,
clamp a hand to her mouth because I don't want to know
that the tremors of her voice are different. Don't want
her accent or moans or
this.
Don't want
what Rose would say,
would die again and again
to hear her say it.
I don't let this beautiful blonde thing
who has a soft spot for lonely men
and drags wicked red nails along my neck
take off my clothes or speak or
see
it's too intimate but not
as much as breakfast, jam and coffee and burnt toast
with Rose.
Where would she want to go today?
I could show her star whales,
she'd lay a hand creased with love on its great body
across the backbone of space and time
and my belly would flutter and I would think
yes.
I dig to bruise flesh but the girl does not protest,
is too young to understand how nothing satisfies.
I sprinkle my nose with pollen
dipping in her folds
and the devil should help me but she
smells of roses and
this other name is not actually
as sweet.
I think of New Earth and the light clarity of apple grass
and that tongue between her teeth,
Oh I love this,
the bravest girl I ever met and how
she never has to die, now.
This girl is whimpering and flushed so I
come into her, leave her there,
I leave like I already left.
Light another fag in the rain blocks later
and walk and walk and
walk away. I wish for Rose's strawberry but I
can't escape the musk of unfamiliar arousal
and even Earth's rain does not clean
or forgive me.
It feels like high time this old dog was put down.
Close my eyes, feel the rain,
inhale the stink of age and history
and yes, it is
time.