of the gentlest kind

In the murky haze of alcohol I strain to reach you. Fingers fully flexed. Mouth open. Famished. Seems I haven't eaten in days.

These brow beating afternoons in my bedroom serve as no subsitute for sustanence. I always scoff my food. Try to let it linger a little longer on my tongue. But my gullet is calling for more of what my hands are thrust deep into.

In the desert there is no horizon. There are only mirages we mistake for waterholes.

Last night I dreamt I was swept out to sea. I tried to swim sideways whilst you watched from the shallows. I play this game with myself you know. Roll the dice and call it fate. I confuse my own devices for tools.

Until it takes me I will keep my head above water
They say drowing is the gentlest death.