The Wrong Ones

A slow *slip-slop-drip* dripping on the floor. A kiss like fighting; fighting for air, for breath, for meaning, for reason... Kiss me harder. Kiss me like you actually mean it. This affection is an illusion; a story you made up to get me into that big soft bed. A story to run you fingers between my legs; leaving me in a want of shivering sinking pseudo-ecstasy. A shiny voice chittering in the back of my head, "It's a lie. Never trust warm hands and a buttery voice. Never ever trust blue eyes..."

Truthfully, I should have never trusted this passion I felt for you. Passion lights upon my eyes and heaps upon my shoulders like the baggage of a thousand passenger trains. I am so very very tired of being a train station... A place you stop on your way to something better. A hold over; a momentary relapse of straining meaning. "Let me take this North West passage to your legs; this mountain rail over your breasts, a stop-gap measure at your mouth..." Do not bother to wave on your way to that golden land; I have already turned my eyes upward.

Have I chosen this isolation or has it chosen me? I have never been entirely sure. I seem to remember coming to this room and thinking it looked comfortable. Did I think I wanted to spend my life here? I can not remember. The walls are now painted with my heart; the colour of chocolate, cream, roses, and fear. That dripping is no longer sensual; an act of fingers in careful places, but merely the annoying ticking of the clockwork lives of my neighbors. Little ants scurrying from one hill to another... I see the world pass through a cloudy window... I refuse to acknowledge its' passing... My colour is red and it bleeds through the walls of my inner most places... Pain is all I have left to give.

I find myself wishing for pureness and a slow pressing of skin to skin but I wake up wrapped in sweat-soaked sheets choking on some already fading dream. I twist around myself; face myself in the mirror stained with the tiny drip drops of another life. I face this ghost of myself; stare at the lines etched in moving granite, the haunting paleness of my skin, and the people living behind my eyes. The ghosts of fingers trail over my underwear and up my back; I would shiver if I had any feelings left in my nerve endings.

I live in a world no one else can see and only love the wrong ones...