Whatever's riding my spine got a name like yours. 

 

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  • Thank youuuu ;*

  • tumblr_ofx98kBeDb1qlioplo1_500.jpg?width=350

    I miss this.

    The roof at dusk becomes your midnight. Neon promises blur to life. Music hangs in the air between us. I gift you all of my sorrow, and you weave it into sheer delight.

    Somewhere, inside you, I am a vibrant young man whose eyes are bluer than his heart.

    The long notes make you sigh in my ear. Make you kiss me with an aeolian laugh which turns to breath that I can taste in my mouth. With sentience it weaves around the fire escapes.

    To you.

  • download.jpgIn hindsight, he can think about how this day opened up feeling different; full of possibilities and intuitive warnings. The evening is shaded by a light rolling fog. His street is relatively empty; too local to be part of the tourist foot traffic. Here in the South End, you find the real inhabitants; people too poor to do anything but get one off and get one over.

    He's only walking into that liquor store because it's all his body knows to do; the muscles have memorized the motions, so the mind doesn't get too uneasy.

    Schedules to keep, and miles before he sleeps.

    Outside the Shop and Go Billy sits on the stoop. A four-time war veteran who has been left here in the chewed gum, body fluids, spilled big-gulps, and cigarette ashes to die for his service. Django always pulls a few dollars out to lend him a helping hand. Usually, Billy sleeps through it. They are about to tuck covertly into the mud covered lapel of an old army jacket when Billy, wakes up.

    homelessblackandwhiteportraitsleejeffries2.jpg?width=220

    "SomeoneleftsomethingforyouDdddddjango. 

    NinetysixNinetySixNinetySixNinetySix..."

    Working the ambient light, Django leans into a shadow, the fluorescent bulbs above his head hiss and crackle. "You don' say. Whadday leave meh?" His accent gives him away as being genuinely indigenous to the neighborhood. Maybe a muddy blend of what was once Dutch, French, or Chinese.

    Billy hands him a bag with an empty bottle of gin, a half a pack of cigarettes, and an envelope with a fingerprint smudged lipstick kiss. Django smiles. "Where dis come from, eh?"

    "A girl. Ppppretty as most - Nicer than all the rest." Billy tells him shakily. He must have polished that gin off recently.

    Django opens the envelope, not minding the dirt or the gritty remnants in her lip-print. Confused by the heart on the back...

    "Her name, t' Lee?"

    front.jpg


  • 114d6ce422d3b63114f5b05b3d63dbe2.jpg

    His eyes are immune to all the glamor around this place. Temptations aren't as much of an indulgence for him as they once were. Not anymore. His whole life has been a bedraggled series of unfortunate events, and now he just allows himself the normalcy of what other people call a seduction.

    His day always ends with the last cigarette and a new bottle of gin. Usually as a spectator from the shadows of his office window. Some nights, if he's lucky, a dark haired woman steals herself up to the door tightly wrapped up in a long black coat. But, truth is most nights he's solo up in that window. Back-lit by an amber desk lamp and shaded by the red neon sign of Pangs Laundromat.

    So red hot, and blue.

    Coltrane crackles under the needle of an old turntable he purchased at the flea market on a black market kiosk. He likes things from Earth. Smoke hangs on the humidity and glows as it floats cloud-like into the atmosphere.

    Blue. Blue. Blue light flashes at him from across the way. He wonders if anyone is awake or if he is the last man standing.

    Could it be more lonely? The traffic occasionally offers the yellow headlights of reality to break the monotony of it all, but it can't change your routines. It can't change your habits.

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