Spit

2003-11-21
I can tell that there is a look you want to give me. Closing my eyes I can see it, but the sickness in my throat turns to liquid and I'd rather spit than open my eyes to view it. I will sit here with my eyelids blanketing my awareness until I fall asleep, and then I will just witness you scatter yourself like the fragments of a dream. It's something I will watch with bemusement until I wake with the indifference of knowing that you will no longer be in front of me. I'd rather save my spit for the sidewalks.