Motion Lines

I wake up in your bed again, my skin crawling with the quickly fading sensations of whatever dream had provoked this cold sweat from my pores. My dreams have become turgid; great swollen gathering grounds for the fruition of seedy, whispered concepts. Brief flashes of lightning that came and went with the sunlight grow into great thunderstorms of rhetoric and hope with the nurturing of the moonbeams. They’re contrasted against a cityscape backdrop of angular and unstable towers of cynicism, fear and disbelief. Torrid dramas unfold themselves before me, people who’ve made themselves know in my waking life tear in and out of focus in both minor and major parts, frequently both at once.
They share lives and deaths together within the frame of a moment before separating and adhering to new partners. Every night is a new fascinating spectacle. A dominating man throwing himself from a building, a smiling, blond housewife selling her toned body. Tight lipped debutantes and long-legged heiresses rolling in mud on the television. My mother and father waltzing on the wings of a plane as it plummets towards the ocean where aging men with wax faces watch from yachts. I remain the voyeur, by choice or by happy accident. These bizarre, often haunting, nocturnal visions are better from afar. The tragedies are less tragic when I know I have no more sway than old English figureheads. I watch tragedies both minute and epic wash over the ones I love. I can’t stop the dominating man from plunging to his death anymore than I could have stopped the buildings from collapsing in on my first loves and their families. I am nothing and nowhere until morning.

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