all the stuff that is magic
ive been bed-ridden (literally) for most of the weekend.
missing. in. action.
sick as a dog.
ive desperately been to two doctors already; useless mooks, have done nothing but drain me off my funds dedicated to my much beloved shopping quota.
this monday, more mundane than usual, has evoked my deep-rooted feelings of restlessness,
ive been fidgeting furiously for the past hour,
switching interchangedly between hiding underneath the covers, and rocking about animatedly in my armchair,
with nothing much to do but adopt a heavy smoking respite to dilute my qualms.
curiously, i look into my mug of crappy instant 98% fat free chicken soup, to find maggot-shaped sorry pieces of ‘noodle’ depressingly floating around in the msg-infested liquid.
chicken soup for the soul? hardly.
my fever is getting from bad to worse, lest i fear my eye-balls will eventually sear into my sockets.
a hollow, sharp pain runs through my chest and stomach, like parasites feasting on a dead carcass
my head is stricken w a hellish migraine - stunningly instigated the moment i hobbled to take a peek at my reflection in the mirror.
oh fuck!
i was met w a pale pasty cast, swollen red eyes set atop some grusomely garish blue-black eyebags.
all blood has been drained out of my lips,
and my hair looks and feels like a tepid heap of straw. limp and dead.
if there was ever a one time, i was at my lowest, resembling a hell-wrath of the living-undead.
it was now.
my reflection peers helplessly back at me, willing me to do something.
i quickly grab a brush an attempt to weave through my locks.
limp golden strands when met with the brush,
fall out of my scalp like feathers from boiled-pre-plucked chicken.
horrified in my confoundment ,
my drama-mama tendencies causes me to hurl the god-be-damned hair brush across the room.
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all i can think about now, how i yearn, and miss
his hands, a craft of the stuff that is magic,
his artful touch running melifluously over my skin, like a trickle of heaven-like ecstasy down my spine,
paradoxical to his sturdy arms, almost stifling in its fervent resilience, always compelling me to capitulate,
his soft, dry lips meeting mine in fiery temperament;
how i long to exist once more in his affinity, not a care in the world; only a heightened sensation of things.
his hot breath caressing the creek of my neck.
and the inevitable of all there is to come, in that fleeting, but lurid moment of time and space.
