An Homage to Shame

The taste of sick doesn't ever peel off of the roof of one's mouth. You could drain the world of its oceans, but once the water dries up, the same foul flavour will creep back up.

Time has become one long circular string, no end, no beginning. In what has been four days (If my calendar is being honest with me) my watch no longer fits, nor do my pants, and I quite possibly look the best I have in a while.

I feel, however, like shit.

I had two dreams this one night. Both dreams were roughly 2 and a half hours long, both in terms of dream-world and real-world time. They were different dreams, but I always wake up because I'm kissing her body all over, and her tears rain down on me. They purge me of my wrongs, they wash me pure, they absolve me, for better or for worse. Her body starts to glisten with the wetness of all my kisses, and the grateful heat rushing forth from my puckered lips makes her body sweat. All this moisture mingles together in indeterminable pools of mercy, yearning, and atonement, and we cling on for dear life. She touches my face, lip quivering, and she cries. She cries, and I keep kissing her, overwhelmed by her grace. She stops me, and holds my face to look into my eyes, and she keeps crying. She wraps me in her embrace, and she squeezes me with an unimaginable force, a force to tie me down, a force to keep me, a force to hide me away. It brings tears to my eyes.

I wake up, only to realize I am alone. Wheezing, gasping, reeling, alone. Me, and two saline stains on my pillow, the taste of sick on my palate, and the smell of loneliness familiar. I gasp, and I wheeze, and I reel some more, and I start crying, because two stains just isn't enough.

Elsewhere, who knows...Maybe she sits up crying too, and maybe, possibly, probably, there rests an angry bear on her shoulder, sharp teeth bared in clear warning to the world. Maybe, there on her shoulder, he cries too.

They might not know it, but maybe, probably, possibly... they all cry together.