sheets reek of self. tried washing them. again & again. the stench of my body remains. even when he sleeps over, days at a time. the sheets refuse to absorb any of his sweat, shampoo residue. when he falls asleep, i smoke a cigarette, sniff the edges of my mattress.
tonight: another party. every room full of the sort of darkness that stuns you into silence. the stillness of sitting on a carpeted surface, someone blahing about brian wilson. left early. drove home. the road lit, air before me thick. had to squint to see further than two feet, pull over repeatedly to just to breathe.