Clothes of various fabrics and even more various shades of black sit strewn about on the hardwood floor with a visible layer of dust, waiting haphazardly to make me sicker. There is no furniture in which to put away the masses of satin, vinyl, velvet, breaking khaki-colored carboard boxes to drape them on, blue faux plastic luggage. The rest of the luggage, and the ridiculously sentimental treasures inside, lost in a sea of physical and emotional baggage somewhere in Pittsburgh. The smell of one night of carnal pleasure lingers, a monument to the human need for love. There is no emotional involvement, a trick played for nature to hopefully advance the human race.
Love is distant, just out of reach.
An electro-memory, current touching the skin, reflections of pointed painted fingernails. The crack of a suede whip bearing down on the whitest flesh, an outlet for the pain and degredation of the world. The soft call of a street knife, a protector, with a name that innocently calls upon what everyone searches for. Inescapable memories, a foggy mix of unwanted touches, of touches wanted most of everything in the world, of people lost and found, of the ones who perportedly cared that took material things, my heart, my self-will. There will be a next one, there always will be, someone to take what isn't theirs, to tire of neverending dramas, grab another piece of me, and run as fast as they can.