itchy fingers

cutting my memories again. small filaments of tissue fall to the floor and into my bag. i carry these small peices of my past with me. watch them get mushed into peices of chocolate left over from days ago.

i am practicing abstinence. folding fingers into palms to avert disaster. technology seems all to convienent and to be frank, you don't feel like a store.

this is my cyber declaration. as close as it comes to out of my mouth. a spill at this stage would be worse than red wine. my hands are stained enough as it is.

show me show me show me. something other than this long distance communique. give me something redemptive like a slow dance on the spencer hill at dusk. i watch planes taking off but your clothes would be better. all smooth and tarnished skins.

this is not something. this is something other than that. other than restorative justice. i am writing in the capital O.