I know it's Monday but they're all the same to me. There are no weekends in this acidic life, seasons change outside but it happens gradually, the transition is less abrupt. There's no circle, no beginning or end, nothing ever starts all over like I sometimes wish it would.
When I was little, mother still wanted
things for me. My dreams meant something to her until our existence
collapsed that fall between day and night. The morning after smelled
like winter, she disappeared behind her sunglasses and we both stopped
talking to each other.
She came home yesterday after months away
somewhere without me. I never ask, she puts her coat on a hanger, her
shoes beside her bed and everything slowly returns to normal. Whatever
"You should drink more" she says, looking at the empty
Gin bottle in the kitchen. It's the way we talk now, the morning smells
vaguely of snow and Cartier de Lune.