Empty Room

I asked about the empty room and he said he had none. I led him to the empty room and he said it wasn’t empty. Obstinately refused, when I pointed out the settled dust, the musty smell, the peeling paint, the scratches on the hardwood floor, from the furniture pulled out. I walked to every corner and covered every inch of the room, insisting it was uninhabited. But he looked at me as if I was the strange one. He shook his head and bade me follow. He led me to the window, pointing to the fingerprints on the windowpanes. He knelt on the floor to drag his finger through the dust; dead skin cells. He picked up a stray hair, a broken nail. He peeled away a layer of the pale blue paint, and beneath it were her words, scrawled. He said she was still there, and the room wasn’t empty.

Trail of Words

The trail of the words he spoke that night have led me here, to follow my own uncommunicated thoughts, unexplored ambitions, unforgivable decisions. They are. But I followed the trail of his words through the night, past the filters of rationality, across the continent. Here. I followed the trail of his words to my future, my own trail of words, and now I search for one glimpse of his trail. I wish he would follow his own trail of words and find himself here. And find me, lost in my trail of words.

Eight Years

After eight years of absence I breathe beside him again and we sit staring out at the open sky beyond this cliff. We need not speak, we need not touch. I know the way his lips will purse, will part, and his mouth will exhale the sound of patience. He will wait eight more years. And another eight after that. And another eight after that. As long as I promise to come back, he will wait.

Bored At Work

Me:
I'm so bored at work today. And tired. I just want to curl up somewhere and go to sleep.

Sascha:
One of my friends used to sleep at work under his desk.
You gotta desk?

One Month

One month. Barely, in fact. I knew him for one month and somehow that short amount of time managed to impress me in such a way that I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I wasn’t in love with him; by no means. It was just the fluidity of his lifestyle. He had no strings, nothing to connect him to anything in the world. All he had was his dog and his bike. Something about that was intriguing. Maybe because it was what I wanted myself.

You know how someone can pass through your life, for a short amount of time yet make such a big impression? That’s what happened. All I had with him were a few nights in the kitchen sipping wine, in the dark, with only a strand of Christmas tree lights blinking along a wall. A few nights curled up on the futon, pretending to watch movies. Chain-smoking on the back patio. And the next thing I knew, I was writing a novel about him.

Stoned

Sascha:
Can i borrow your camera for a few days?

Me:
Sure. which one? Digital or SLR?
I have a roll of b&w currently loaded in the SLR.
I can use it up tonite or you can finish it up if you want.

Sascha:
I think digitial will be good. I'm 2 dumb for SLR.

Me:
Cool.
You are too dumb.

Sascha:
Question... What would be the 'correct' level of dumb?
Please advise

Me:
Stoned.

Sascha:
Goddamnit, I thought at first that it wasn't an answer to my question but
you telling me arbitrarily that you were stoned with just that word.
I nearly peed myself.

(Later)

Me:
I was.