strange now to think of you, plus two hundred miles away from what i call yr home. the oil paints drip off the loosely stretched canvas onto the 4 lonely sunflowers. the sunflowers sit, perched over & slouching a bit in a transparent vase as i await yr return. i too sit slouched over a bit, killing time by watching the hamsa dangle off my tiny wrist & staring at the letters on my screen. in defense of the evil eye i must say, even all the first edition bukowskis could not have this emotion stray away. & while the smell of turpentine lingers in my sheets i can't help but be reminded that two hundred minutes ago you had filled those sheets with yr tom ford cologne. all that is left is to sit slouching and waiting, while chain smoking the reds you left here for me.
and so i realize it is time to let it unfold.
(collection of memories )
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