I Remember Waking Up and Kissing You, My Lips Sticky from Sleep, on a Floor Covered with Other Twenty-Somethings, a DVD Menu Looping Over and Over on the Television, Getting Up Early and Driving 30 Minutes to Work by Michael Inscoe
The sun and the moon are both very visible in the sky.
I send you a text: ‘Stab my fucking chest with a Sharpie and write your name on my heart. What are you doing right now?’
You respond, ‘Did you see the news?’
‘Come here,’ I respond.
I walk outside. Things seem fine because they always seem fine.
Things can only be fine because to suggest otherwise would be to reject logic.
The world is fine. Everything is fine.
I walk to buy some beer from a gas station close by.
Other people are looting at the gas station. The clerk seems depressed.
A man is on the phone with his wife, telling her he loves her and he wishes he’d been around more.
I walk home with the beer and sit on the porch drinking it.
The sky is blood red and you text me: ‘Fuck the world, Lol.’
I respond, ‘What are you going to do tonight? Right now there is a sad teenager making a playlist with only songs about ends for his girlfriend. I regret that I am not this teenager.’
Where are you?
It’s cold outside. There are dead birds everywhere.
I think about me, as a child, my fucking parents, my fucking brother.
We had a dog.
There’s a photo of me with my mom from when I was ten or eleven; we’re dressed the same. I’m grinning like an idiot and my mom is looking at something just past the photo’s border, sort of half-grimacing.
I walk to the car and unlock the door.
I drive to work but it’s closed so I go back home.
I send you a text: ‘The moon is melting and turning to blood; the sky is dark red; the sun has exploded; should I update my Facebook status?’
I drive home and the cat is sleeping on my bed.
I lie down next to it but it gets up and leaves the room.
The last time I saw you, you were dressed up for a dinner with your family. We drank wine and looked through my roommate’s things.
When you bought those fake mustaches and we wore them all night and you kept calling everything ‘bitches,’ I remember at one point, late into the night, you straightened mine, above my mouth, your face so close to mine, your hand and fingers
I wake up so hungover and feeling really sad. I look at my phone. I turn my computer on and look at the screen. I check my email and Facebook. Someone says something about how all the oceans are turning to blood. There is blood everywhere.
dead birds lying in gutters and floating atop seas of coagulated blood all thick and maroon and black.
You sent me a text: ‘No, I’m not impossible to touch’
I taste something on my lips. My eyes are watering.
There are trucks outside and men working on the phone lines or the internet or something.
‘The internet is working fine,’ I think.
I close my computer.
I send you a text.
I fall asleep.
When we were on the phone and I said, ‘Think about it, there’s actually no such thing as tumbleweeds,’ and you sent me a photo of one and I said, ‘That’s just a prop,’ and no one noticed all the tumbleweeds in the world disappeared that night forever
Michael Inscoe edits ‘unsure if I will allow my beard to grow for much longer’.
© 2012, Metazen.