2
Visibility in the Shadows
It's just another day, another bed you wake up from, another town whose name you can't spell more so pronounce. Tomorrow keeps on coming and you're thankful that the smell of coffee heralds its arrival. It's just another shower, another habit and routine you go through. Nobody knows you and no one even cares to remember. You're nowhere and you're everywhere at the same time.
He was just another man. It was just another moment. Just another warm body that surrounds you in breaths, flesh and skin. You lay bare without any promise beyond tomorrow. Another slip of the palms, another slick slide, inside - outside, flesh slapping and moans. You leave before the bed gets cold. Leave before the hand print on your arms fade from pink to flesh; leave before the shiver finishes its journey down your spine. Your memory is left in sweat and lip gloss stains on pillows and sheets and the occasionally intentionally left behind underwear. You do that as a prize to those who've performed well enough for you to remember and fantasize about when you're alone and horny. Doing more than just fucking you is a mistake.
You go back on the road, out on the back ways and uneven roads where years pass by like the constant blip of the broken yellow lines. Kilometers and "Welcome to..." signs mark anniversaries and birthdays instead of candles on a cake or roses in a bunch.
It's just another day, another hour, another minute. You believe you are invisible.
You accept it.
He was just another man. It was just another moment. Just another warm body that surrounds you in breaths, flesh and skin. You lay bare without any promise beyond tomorrow. Another slip of the palms, another slick slide, inside - outside, flesh slapping and moans. You leave before the bed gets cold. Leave before the hand print on your arms fade from pink to flesh; leave before the shiver finishes its journey down your spine. Your memory is left in sweat and lip gloss stains on pillows and sheets and the occasionally intentionally left behind underwear. You do that as a prize to those who've performed well enough for you to remember and fantasize about when you're alone and horny. Doing more than just fucking you is a mistake.
You go back on the road, out on the back ways and uneven roads where years pass by like the constant blip of the broken yellow lines. Kilometers and "Welcome to..." signs mark anniversaries and birthdays instead of candles on a cake or roses in a bunch.
It's just another day, another hour, another minute. You believe you are invisible.
You accept it.
