Tuesday, January 17, 2006

The pub was full of grey and black and white.
In a window, my bag and coat on the floor, by Lindsay’s legs, glass in hand; I make my way over to the bar. I see: your arm around her, reaching behind her back, your fingers clinging to her waist. I am tired of you. And this is when I become: hysterical and sad and drunk and hyper. Let’s leave, let’s move on, come on. Let’s leave now without saying goodbye. Come on. We beautiful ones, we do not care and we can have anything and anyone we want. Leave us alone, do not slow us down.

We sit in the nighttime in a garden in Brick Lane on wooden benches eating rice, chicken, cous cous. We walk home. X on my phone, where are you? Where are you and then I love you and we go home and my I love you back.