#Scurf151: Writer in the dark 🌃
Lorde fixations 🍂 🤎
Six year anniversary of Melodrama, the album changed everything back when nothing seemed to unlock. (Dear reader, it still doesn’t. None of it ever does.)
The skin on my fingers is all callouses, a cracked and chapped shell of itself. After using my luxury handwash at home for almost three years, the hard, coarse soap in my new office stings the skin between my fingers. A grainy texture taking on where once were tufts of soft, cushy flesh. My hands singe so much I avoid washing them.
The cigarette burns till the end and I forget to dab it into the porcelain cup on the bedside table. Did someone ring the bell? It’s early on a Thursday morning and the house booms with the doorbell sound so fresh and so shrill, it sends a shiver down my shaky spine. I ignore it and train my attention on the little murmur of a song swivelling up from my iPhone.
I'll be your quiet afternoon crush; be your violent overnight rush
Facedown, volume at lowest of lows, fan turned off so I could feel the transitory cool of this heavily rained late August morning. I stare out of the window. A place with heavy smells. The sun nowhere to be seen.
There is an unnameable something there. The darkness of last night turning the corner at the morning’s cervices. Something lifts, but not entirely.
The words they dribble out of my pencil striking coarsely against the blank side of the pamphlet that came with my recent amazon order. I strike out an an extra of from somewhere there.
A lover left behind. The ash smears my sage green Lajpat bedsheet. I dab at it in a sleepless effort to bellow out of the clinkers.
Nothing gives. But something does.
Bet you rue the day you kissed the writer in the dark
All of last night I swayed in the arms of an imagined someone. Each time words meaning more than I meant to say slid out of my mouth, I opened the notes app on my phone and made furious inscriptions.
None of this should slip away. Even if all of the love slips away. Love is anyway a slippery little thing, right? I have memorised all the novels and movies and poems and songs.
The frissons, they never stop. “No more cribbing.” I jot a million-th time. But its just a supercut of us. A half-smile, blinkered in my the lack of sleep.
I look up from my phone. An unalloyed happiness washes over as I see a crepuscular something smile back at me from my window. The sky is a stinging shade of cobalt. I want all of time to stop! A luscious infusion of relief.
summer slipped us underneath her tongue; our days & nights are perfumed with obsession
Its like 2017 never left us!
I disconnect, dissociate, cleave away. Obsess over this feeling. Investigate its roots.
It’s the wee, weak unearthly hour that’s accentuated the abandonment, I tell myself. This sense of fleetingness, perpetuating now a mono no aware.
This too, shall pass. And once it does, I shall return to be my known, cold, aloof self. Devoid of needs. Resting my head in between my own palms. The phone dies, a feeble death for two hours, giving me enough time to shower, eat something and emerge a new self.
I check my phone — full battery, no music, no messages from you. I flail. All over again.
It’s just another graceless night
xo