Trips to the Lunar and back jaunting through half
smoked stubs.
Peals of laughter crashing over waves of silence. Following
one another through and through.
Dreams gathering dust and smoke on the rafters where
rats and cockroaches have taken to whispering and sniggering.
My company in days spent wistfully before Loice, my
laptop. Furiously typing away, dreams of
my future, of stories untold.
My grandfather told me of his days lumbering in
Tanzania. Lost in jungles sawing through forests to the melodic singing of birds
and mean hissing snakes.
My grandfather told me of the softness of woman after a long day spent hauling timber
and breathing saw dust.
In a room permeated with cigarette smoke and weed
stubs, the smell of our sweat and lovemaking screams for attention.
Her hair in my face. I try to extract myself from
beneath her where I am straddled cowboy. I can't. Riding behind her ecstatic
screams, sleep had followed on wings of exhaustion.
I light a half smoked joint one handed, brush her
hair out of my face and peer at the rats playing hide and seek through a film
of smoke.
Halos of dusk
streak in in lazy orange colors to remind me of evening.Of yet another day
spent in stupor. Thinking up plots, tripping, shredding them, forgetting them.
She wakes up and takes the stub from my hand. A long
drag later, "What time is it?" "Three minutes to seven," "Oh
shit oh shit,” my mum will be home by now." She starts looking for her
pants under the bed.
Darkness creeps in with her departure, the rats are
growing bold.
Jaunts in Technicolor, town lights illuminate my
room in hues of stars. Lying there staring at the sounds of rats and darkness,
I realize,
The Morning sun has become a stranger.
@mossetti
