First time I told my girl about those steel mornings and how I couldn’t bring the sun over my being under bedsheet, 

She came closer, she blew some cigarette over my hostile face and moved my fingers to her wet and cold vagina…


There was death, echoing blasphemous riddles, inside that slippery phenomenon. 

The second time I told her about my rainy day loneliness and how that’s my guilty pleasure, 

She went to other room and called in my cellphone and told me that now she would play a waltz of tranquility from there…

Fucking with my bottle of silence. 

The twenty-seventh time I told her about how every dotted nights laying beside her, I dream about a grass mower and a car, spitting fire and a girl, rubbing herself and smoking the most brown cigarette, 

She wore the purple top with forest printed outside and inside 

and went outside in sunset desert and build a cave under the charismatic dunes. 

The thirty fifth time I told her I am getting overflowed by whiskey and getting tornadoes every nights and pressing the light button ten times just to be sure about filaments, 

She plucked out my clothes and pressed her rambling and shooting breasts against me

and took a good look of my failing eyes 

and went for different geography and a better place with no psychopaths. 

I still buy loneliness from the liquor store and I still watch tv with blue smokes and flying potato chips, 

And I am still messing with the infinity.