expat's profile

A thin film of exhaled nicotine covers the browns, greens and sickly pinks of of untended molds on the small living room window. Serenaded by the rhythmic creaking of protesting chair parts she sits, rocking, rocking. Percussion is added by a clock, ticking, tocking. Its cheaply painted facade stirs no memories of a gift gladly received from a forgotten lover. A cigarette is lit by the dieing embers of its predecessor. A runny eyed cat sprawls on her lap, occasionally protesting a fallen ash....

It is not the scattered prism from a Victorian parlor window that stains this glass. The browns, greens, and pinks of untended molds are lacquered by a nicotine film. The serenade is that of a rhythmic creaking of protesting chair parts as she sits, rocking, rocking Percussion is added by a clock, ticking, tocking. Its cheaply painted facade stirs no memories of a gift gladly received from a forgotten lover. A cigarette is lit by the dieing embers of its predecessor. A runny eyed cat sprawls ...

He was horny. She was hot. ....... The minuscule vein just below his Apollo-esc ear pulsed in silent, soundless rhythm, betraying the much more compelling throbbing taking place elsewhere in his lanky embodiment of masculine perfection. His atramentous locks lay across his slightly bemused forehead. Plotting the assignation, the rendezvous of intertwining sun kissed limbs, brought him slight amusement as well as as a domineering feeling of masculine power and control. He was indomitably irres...

Window glass dripping from age refracts the morning light. Sojka and the mourning dove serenade in a strange discordant symphony. Replaced are the cacophony of sirens, angry lovers, and predictable trams. New sights cannot camouflage my cage, for you are here; the keeper of the cage. It is a cage constructed strongly of dreams attained and not replaced, Lost passion, obsessions fueled by compulsion: all unyielding bars. It was to be left behind, with unused clothing, broken chairs and fresh ...

Each morning I gather the pieces of me And paste them together hastily, Into a semblance of my identity. Yesterday the eyes were wrong. I saw things differently all day long. Because the right was where the left belongs. Today I fear my nose has gone askew, That roses'frangrence is all too Reminisent of southern BBQ Tomorrow, it will be my mind That’s ignobly left behind. Something for the cat to find