pigeon shit

he lives really close to all his stuff. He can probably give you a library listing of the books he owns because he eats breakfast with them every morning.
I wonder at the shapes of the rooms; corners cut where they oughtn't be and rooms broken down into smaller micro-rooms. Not really doing much except to make me feel claustrophobic and panicky.
I cant even pace effectively.
The apartment is in a 'hip' neighborhood. Its stairs leaning as if to say that they are tired and want you to remove yourself from them and 'here let me help'
the bricked up windows of the building next door are emmense piles of pigeonshit rivialing in size, any African ant hill.

i am here to watch the slow breaking of my heart.
i shouldn't be here at all.
i should be home having breakfast.
Kissing the back of her neck.
maybe still slowly rolling around the bed warm and happy.
not here
not with these piles of bird crap in this leaning building with its ugly hallway and irregular rooms.
i want to be home
i want to stop crying
i want to think about something else.
i want to be able to listen to Andrew Bird

i think about "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind"
i weep uncontrollably. sobbing loud and gutterally.
wanting to go backwards.
wanting to fix everything.
wanting to be able to eat without feeling sick.
i want her to believe as much as i do.


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