waitress

the sweat glistened just above her brow, she wiped it away coolly without so much as a second though. i noticed a tattoo on her hand as she brought it delicately to her forehead. she asked me what i wanted, then smiled. a smile that spoke in tongues about the stories of her life. it was an endearing smile with the smallest hints of gleaming white teeth behind soft lips. she had a biblical name on her tag. it was a variation on the word acacia. a tree that holds significance with the jews i believe. it struck me as ironic, pure, simple if that word even exists anymore.

she wrote down my order, her pen slid across the notepad and yet she still looked at me and smiled. that smile put my jolted life to ease for just one moment, for just one meal. her eyes where pale, a fading grey. haunting and lovely. terrifying and beautiful. her eyes said as much as her smile did. i imagined she was once something great. a heart breaker. she sent the men crying and clutching impishly at their chests holding a broken heart. she was something great. but now she is here. just as she had came she had left.

 i watched her disappear into the kitchen, with her pen now in her hair. she left an impression on me. i smiled and looked at my hands. they were rough, they still are actually. i looked at my hands and thought of her tattoo. it was in cursive, it said something i did not understand. something i could probably never understand. i could never understand the iridescent glow in her sad eyes. 

burning

brain rot. from the inside out or the outside in. 

too often

As he stood at the toilet he gripped his pants with a surgeons hand, steady and slow yet firm. He slowly tugged at the brass button of his chinos. The painting over the toilet was of a house, emerald and lethargic in his memories as he turned his head to the left wall. There he saw a mosquito hawk, splayed out with a certain savage beauty flapping its wings hysterically. Yet the thing didn’t fly away, the iridescent wings gave off a sirens hum, sweet to the ear. Time stopping if anything, the sound flowed to his ears to sooth his troubled mind. His right hand still gripped the brass button; there was no zipper on his chinos, merely four-brass button in a straight line. He contemplated the buttons; the blasé painting, the insect thriving on the eggshell wall to his left. Perhaps the humble crane fly was offering a challenge to him. It seemed that way at times, why not an insect if anything? Perhaps this insect was sent to challenge his worldly life or perhaps it was the spirit of a dead relative. He listened for the insect once more, but instead heard the rhythm of his own breathing. He decided what he had to do, and this was not that. So he left.