[bloody kisses]: 558.Be Still My Fast Beating Heart.Without Notice

What’s worth the plenty thought of murder, when itself is just a spell of black instant ideal? A liquor that sips into the mouth of an event, drains into the eyes of a passerby with interest, a limit that belongs entirely to monotony. A drug, worse than, but too much alike nicotine, seeping into veins, circulation is obscured and pulse is stalled a moment to place certain actions into place. It is love in a form of simple passion – it is simply an art.

All lays uncertainty which brings on a mistake, little to be seen. And so, the late night feet recklessly march along the sidewalk. People to their own destinations, so many walking that no one but themselves knows their own intended paths - minds, unfiltered and grungy, trashed like sewage and amounts of waste so broad that put simply, everyone else has access to put hold and to trail and cease the steps put forth. Any soul with determination can force detour with no exit route. So, there are feet, stamping home in heels and ripped stockings, stumbling towards bars from exhausting betrayals, and tripping forward with no certain place in mind other than a couch with alcohol on lulling breath. 

On the corners stand women in need of shelter and fixes on drugs, they wait. Time away from alcoholics maybe, but in need of money in a way forcing them apathetic for a means to how. A new pair of red heels breaks through the stream with a toddler teetering by, stumbling beside their wake, keeping up. But even then a mist rises underneath them, luring anything with a sweet tooth. A scent illuminant on her skin, radiant in imagery, though many pass her by without a glance; minds narrowed by a haze of alcohol, sleeplessness, and worry. But the one person with nothing to lose notices mist rising from the cracks in the sidewalk inhales the sweet perfume of it, lets it stick in his throat.

The child runs ahead, playing, giggling, and skipping in the fog which thickens between them, disorienting sight. A voice rings out behind her, unheard though implying a sense of chastising, cut off with a whine. A man stepping forth with black lacing through, and into his eyes continues by her, notices her teased, pretty blonde hair. Turning to twirl on his heel, the man wraps his hand around her mouth, bright red and pulls her away, a red shawl wisps to the ground. Oddly, through the nearly silent, and now vibrantly clear space between the walls of the buildings, compact and lining the streets, the sound of a haste – tic-tock – just like a clock, the sound of pretty, brand new red heels, follow after her daughter. The child runs ahead, not noticing a thing as she reaches the end of the block – reaches up to press a crosswalk button, and turns around to spot her mother.

This is the longest walk of a lifetime – a simple spell of black; passion, love, and loss in ideal momentum. The scent of waste in eternity, stealing what else is precious than a simple high.

[7/22/08]