it is unusual that there are no pens in sight. it is also unusual that the laptop sits on the bed. so here i am, at two thirty a.m. trying to spit some words, to satisfy the urge to sum the night. An attempt to, to, to [google mild apraxia]. when I find myself in this unlabeled state, I feel the need to enumerate. actions. abreactions. emotions. are all recorded. one after the other. match. merci. light. inhale. (exhaling comes naturally) lift your arm and tend to it. (a short journey to heaven looks so distant) reminder. inhale. inhale. drop and stomp, it meant nothing in the first place. never. never needed it. reeking of ash and unpleasant odors, but all that i can sniff in the air is the stench of sex. an old soul tied to another. an unwise decision. i cannot tell if yesterday's excursion was a success. i thought so, but that swelling knot in my throat would beg to differ. a feeling burrows inside me, pleads for security. i'll never decode any of it, but your drunken consolations hush these menacing ticks. you'll never have to doubt my love. i cannot deny what you stir up. something, somewhere in between my heart and mind. i thought i had an epiphany, but i'll never cross that line. these same words recycled, reused and ridden. nothing is new, and nothing is stale. through the wash and spin cycle one more time.