you meddling muddlers, you

it's heavy, in
memory,
dripping off my
shoulders like
wet concrete, sitting
on my chest, and
pushing
out my breath...
i'm quite the
cynic but, now -
now.
now,
now.

now what?
my head is spinning,
swirling,
a highball of jameson
between nervous
palms... and
so collected, you
seem, undisheveled
at all...

i'm burning, from
inside out,
imploding under
a concrete mess
of memory,
gasping
from surprise and
desire and
thinking... thinking
maybe i've allowed
my cynicism
jade me.



it's funny the things that happen when you least expect it. when you least want anything else to be muddled into your daily life, like mint in a mojito. but what if your mojito doesn't have mint? and what if you thought you may only like mint on reservation for gum? but then you get a mojito that not only has mint muddled into it, but sprigs that decorate it? and you taste it and understand that wow, you really do enjoy drinking minty mojitos... that they're not only pretty but pretty fukkin awesome. and then someone comes and knocks the mojito out of your hand and it smashes to the floor, and the next bars you go to don't even make mint flavored drinks. and then all you're doing after that initial mojito is picturing it in your head and hoping that there may be a chance that when you go back to that bar, another can be made that is the exact same, and you can enjoy it as fully and wholly as you did the first time around...

le sigh. i don't even know what i'm talking about. i don't drink mojitos. i should have used dirty martinis in the analogy. but you don't muddle olives into it, so it wouldn't work. whatever. my head never lets my heart rest.

k.