26/11/2010
Words are nothing but cupped hands when they roll off a hungry tongue. Gimme something, your last fag or your best line. Love me, love me, love me. So I can tell you tomorrow that I don't love you. So you weren't telling the truth? Nah, the truth is saved for stand-up comedy and last breaths.
The last drops of liquor, soak into a dry mouth. Nothing to swallow, nothing to get caught in your throat but the hot air of bad breath. Swallow it anyway.
Glancing across the shuffling vibrations of a quietly crowded room, catch the eye of someone you don't mean to. Should I smile, I'll smile as I look away. Don't want to look too keen. Slump back in your chair, no one's there. Sit back against the lumps of cheap cushions and wait to order another drink. We're gonna have to run out on this bill.
The bottom of the sea tells the truth. Or so it told me?
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