Each morning I put on my pants, one leg at a time, and button my shirt up to the bottom of a curtain of neglect known as my beard. The mirror reflects a man I used to know, one who becomes increasingly less familiar.
Coffee and toast. A clock ticks. Wind moves naked branches of a slumbering tree outside and rain pelts the window in waves of unrelenting orgasm, as if releasing just to get it over with.
The messy linens in the place where I slept appear indifferent; fitful chaos created by the lonely, unless you count the dreams. I make the bed, thinking it a futile activity, but I must maintain my standards.
Words splatter across a vacant page, a collection of unorganized thought. Writing it down is something less to carry in my head while the day drags, and a little piece of something waiting for me after a day of work.
Shower steam becomes evening fog. I stand, bare and still for a few moments, watching water run down my body and I remember the morning rain. The day is almost over and my body aches and yearns for a sympathetic touch, but I feel only my own clean skin between the flannel lips of a well-made bed.
Kiss me into dreams.