Sunday morning slide off the grey concrete floor of the apartment as stark as the morning I am dazed and always fucking I’m on the very precipice of abandoning all this stinking nostalgia, the land, the sky, the night, all the time, if I just tremble a little more oh god sugar spills on the table as I tried to put it in my cup coffee after coffee, it’s a hot warm bullet and all I can think about is the suicide, when will I be dead again; there is nobody else in this piss-stinking city (haha and the piss-stinking city was below me that night, the heat off pink bricks wafting up). Morning, fog, or whatever you call it, mist just steam, in London where you never know what time it is, night-time, tunnels. Go away what do you mean do you mean out into the countryside?
Out in the countryside where the morning couldn’t be starker and I stand in it and I wear a white jumper and the vague sunrise is my halo, my hand sways along the horizon, the ocean is not far off and I hear its waves. Being fucked on my back with my head out of the tent looking at the beads of moisture on the grass as if I were a microscope. There are only two big emotions in love and they are confused. Last night I saw the dew form and now I am seeing it vanish again. Too late, this morning should have dragged on forever because I would have lived in it, but it slides by the window, the shadows of my plants, the dried teabag and I barely know what it is to be alive.
-LPM
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