I wake myself whimpering and shivering, clawing with hunger pains moaning and angry for your hands and lips, blind and waiting to feel your eyes covering me and keeping me under you.
Restless and aching like the city, a visitor, something strange and extraordinary with its lackluster smog, concrete and steel, too sharp, too existent, too real. I sit and stare at the ordinary cloud cover over ordinary buildings, and ordinary people as insignificant specs of dirt, as insignificant as we think we're not.
My thoughts flash backwards to the smoky ring oozing from your mouth as a steady stream of the same monster derails from my fingers, ashes onto your floor, seeps through your door, breathes into your dream. Restless as I sit and stare, simple and clean and wishing my body wasn’t there. If the sun did not rise so early, if my head would trust how you feel, would I be awake worrying in a lovesick daze after crying in my sleep. Do you really see me, or am I just your ghost of years past? Do you really see me? I wonder, will I last?
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