Green bedsheets in a small room
It was too warm for touching: they held onto each other at their toes. Sometimes one of them would open their mouth to speak, mutter something incoherent, lost to the humid air that stagnated at the open window. There was a nice fuzz on the world. A head-lulling blur. Cigarette smoke, incense, beer lid opener, funny tummy pain and strange noises coming from slurring thoughts. June would let him surface sometimes when she drank. Not tonight. Quieter tonight.
“You know, I only drink beer when I’m with you”.
“I would drink wine for you if you asked”.
Silk by Wolf Alice began, and Martha smiled.
“This song sounds like you”.
Dust. This is where I will leave myself.
June spoke to you in a dream. Soft whispers falling heavy onto your stomach. In that mute hush, the desire to do something awful began to resurface. Or rather, a dense premonition: the sense that she was on the precipice of doing something truly vile. For once, June wished she wouldn’t. She became overcome by the sudden and intense sensation that she was someone she did not find appealing.
She’s hazy, becoming vibrant- visceral- becoming something that even when forgotten remains upon the lilts of your gestures later in the day.
Nothing but the moon answers the prayers she sighs at the end of each sentence. Nothing but the wind and the moon and her own chin crumpled in her own palm. She slides between the grains of sand to the surface of something hard and perfumed. The scent of an old lover, another time, a different haircut, a different perspective on money and on music and on men: three words ago, three strong waves against the wings of a struggling gull.