resting

I stared at the bedroom door after he slammed it. Then, I heard him slam the front door. I imagined him walking down the stairs. Then I got bored. I’m sitting here, staring at the brown, wood door, bored and alone, but I guess sanctioned in something.

I have some empty beer cans beside my keyboard. Bjork is coming out of the speakers. I want to roll around in her lyrics, lock the top lock so you can’t come in; writhe under the fan and fall into a nocturnal pool of glass. God, sometimes the things that come out of my eyes and from your mouth.

Lots of things don’t matter. Like tests or my hair, showers, clothes, friends, release. I usually don’t know anything. Sometimes I sit and stare and think and let words flow nonsensically out of my eyes. I stare hard out the window. I concentrate on trees flying past me so quickly I see shapes and charts targeting where I went wrong and directions on how to turn back around.

My shoulders hurt. I turn on my backside. You’ve been gone for an hour now. I look back at the clock. The CD is almost over probably. I keep wavering between caring for and hating you. Rigorously back and forth: I smile and weaken at the sight of your weakness. I retract and shrink away from the scent of your cockiness. Cologne permeates underneath the bathroom door and sneaks into the comforter. I pull it back from my eyes. It’s hot in here. I want to stop thinking.

The past flows before my face like smoke. This is what happens when I get to be alone. I remember and imagine and get engulfed in all that remains unsatisfied when you’re wandering around your own rooms. They come in waves, like dreams and nightmares. I wait for them; visions that lure my pelvis up to the spinning fan and slowly rotate me around the room. My fingers dangle in the misty zephyr in my blue bedroom. Everything biological and clinical and functional shifts. The doors slam and I’m thrust into a spinning rage of orgasmic association between memories and fantasy. It’s dangerous, but I wait for it. Slam, slam.

My eyes flutter and I’m deep in half-sleep. Sleeping pills comfort my muscles and I sink far into the bed. Feathers float above my head and stroke my eyelids. School and work and rationality sink up and out of here. The door shut and sucked out all aspects of you. I see myself in the mirror differently when I brush my teeth. I feel my body and thoughts vibrantly.

I start to dream.

We’re in a house. There’s a wall behind you. It starts to glow and roll like it’s pressing bread. You get sucked in and I watch your body envelope itself and lose itself in the orange slush. I look left and blink, the room slows.

I turn into a moth and float up the light in the center of the ceiling. The walls are high, I’m so far from the ground and the rolling wall. There’s a small loft in the upper left of the room, completely invisible from the ground. You’re sitting on a chair, your body shifting into sight and back into a vague outline of your shadow. I land on a bed, back in my body, myself. You take on your form and smile at me from the chair. I smile back and the others appear. The bed’s shaking and it slowly begins to smell of smoke. If I’m waking up, I keep my eyes shut for a while more.