Synesthesia

it's all like swirls of purple. deep and calming. unviolent. smooth. thick whirls of paint. tired, but at ease. soundless. a nice cool that you're aptly protected from. simple and spherical. just another Wednesday dead.

earlier

With my mid winter's depression in full swing, I come to you driven by erratic desperation and an aged sense of hopelessness. For the first time in years I felt completely sick. Crunching snow under my feet, a slow rhythm to how beyond discouraged my hung head feels.

Thursday, We Won't be Thawed or Together by Then

I don't know. I could write all night. Write it like you'd actually read it. Write it like it's really love. Cause for now it is, you haven't the chance to prove otherwise. But as the barren cold of a modern wasteland cakes the earth with polluted ice I find the silence of your dream, endlessly deep and dark coating the entire reaches of my mind. The black that stretches forever like an endless pour of oil, or a never ending wind of murky, smoke filled water. My steps and expression locked. Battened down and warm, the ice biting at my skin, tearing through the layers, seem but a mere acknowledgment, no longer sensation. I want to take control at this point. Step into you. Pull you from your world and make you permanent in mine. I want your dream to overtake me. To escape another winter in your arms.

Smoke

The tiny space was lightly coated with the smell of stale towels. Standing on a rug that's cushioning was spent long ago, he hung his head back like a free moving hinge. He thought of her and he thought of this. He sat deep and shivered down the days first drink. It hit cold but coarse, half helping the itching in his throat, half doing nothing but coating his teeth with a film of what he gathered as some type of sugary slime. Along with the days first liquids came the days first fire. Something about the contrast interested him along with how unnatural he often thought these, and other actions of himself and others, were. Smoked rolled consistently out of the tip of this quarter smoked cigarette and he could only think about how badly he never wanted to quit. how he loved the feeling. how it matched his sadness. his friend once professed that it was that deep urge to self destruct. to mutilate yourself. something sinister and natural that burned inside us, borderlined with insanity and psychopathology. His mind was taking a turn for the worse again, so he snubbed the smoke and rose away from the pale winter morning's light. Another year's beginning wrought with the idea of an open door. Now that door seems revolving, endlessly squeaking the grease from its hinges, more of a spectacle than an opening.