following fiction

Before I pass myself over to sleep, I enter the kitchen and in consideration of cleanliness, try and tidy the mess we call home. Two eggs rest in their carton amongst the yokes and cracked shells of their ancestors. I take the eggs out to place in the refrigerator, and one falls, dumping its yellow stain on the newly washed carpet. I was warned of this, and still I manage in my mindfulness to be mindless. I take a swig of wine—let it slosh against the walls of my mouth—and swallow. I need calmness, I need rest. Instead, I’m dragging the carpet through the halls, hiding it in the tub and letting the water run over it. I look myself over in the mirror; neck up, attention to my face, concentrate on my eyes. Perky lashes, wide and enormous emerald pools that have recently been looking less green and more gold. Rays of lucidity spreading to each rim. I know not what to make of it; the green felt gated, blocking my mind’s sight from view—the gold may push others in and into me. I fear. I fall to bed in a white mask. The product claims to perfect one’s appearance. I read further underneath ingredients: just a marketing tactic. It is hard to believe in anything these days, but I keep my faith. I’m wearing your shirt and press my nose down to take you in. It smells like spilt semen and duty-free cologne. Is that how you smell? I can’t remember. But something kept me around. I begin thinking about this, trying to remember a time, situate us there, so I can smell you. What’s the use? You aren’t here, and we aren’t there—all this back and forth is a depressant. I reach over to my drawer. A card sits on top of an already addressed envelope; the card is blank, not yet written, a statement of a void. It probably won’t get sent. You’ll probably never know I was thinking of writing you. I build up some salvia and swallow down a sleeping pill. I wonder if this makes you not trust me. All my pill popping that is—how I’m always entering and exiting a state of sleep and wakefulness. Do you not know where I am situated in reality—whether the me that you experience is real? Stop worrying. I don’t know either. Now I feel so awoken. I take another pill. Still awake. Place my hands over my eyes and promise not to remove them until I fall asleep, stop seeing black and catch sights of bright lighted dreams. I’m waiting—in bed with a white face wearing a semen-scented shirt.
March Tenth