first high of the mourning
I've always been very protective of my space, I spend a lot of time cultivating my perfect setting. Lately I've been thinking about how that's dripped into my history with partners. After so many I scarcely find myself waking up in another's home, I can recall even fewer of these alien landscapes anymore...
Awaking in a sweaty room, a breakfast in a messy kitchen, an alien place that would become my home a mere couple years later...
A blank white room covered in laundry and sound cables. Neglected in favor of an ambitious home theater that lured me into its web...
A room with navy sheets and an off-white color, a crack in the low ceiling can't help but draw my attention, curious about the regular inhabitant who neither of us happened to be. Breakfast shared in a very familiar retro-future kitchen that spited the rest of the home...
Another off white room, sensual photography framed above crimson sheets and a modest dresser. A place I was soon chased out of and would never find again, although half of its belongings would find themselves in the bed of my truck only weeks later...
A 6th floor apartment, a chaise lounge nobody but me ever sat in, overlooking a venue I know so well I could only call it intimate. That chair was dubbed "Day's chair" because of my affinity for it. The perfect place for coffee in someone else's button down shirt, meditating on whatever primal act took place on the kitchen counter or swing or couch or small space between bed and mirror that had transpired beforehand. A lethal "I love you" that stalked me from the hallway to the elevator...
A wide room in a house I helped furnish, a view into the bathroom from the foot of the bed. I made eye contact with a bathrobe that has been dubbed my own before hiding from the sun. A tyrant camouflaged in a crisp white shirt and dark blue tie leaves a key on the bedside table, kisses me on the cheek, and tells me to sleep as long as I like. Huddled up with two shabby cats I'll grow to miss only because they deserve better....
A drum kit and an array of collages made from old volumes of "heavy metal". Unimpressive despite how I romanticize their source material. Russian pop plays to my wholly unsatisfied being as I wait patiently for coffee out of an aero press. Praying for something like Folgers instant to relieve me of my duty even sooner...
A room that drew me in with its models, dust caking them as they guard a secret passage to the studio. Tarot cards and graffiti peer over my small cozy corner in minimal grey sheets. Taken by the hand and smuggled into this space where I could escape from the social maelstrom just a door away. Joined by a protective hound who tried to turn our place of rest into a jigsaw puzzle, furthered by someone channeling their inner bugbear working their way in-between our imperfect tesselation. The lack of windows only dawned on me when the dawn itself never came to greet me, just Excedrin and a stolen kiss, just in time to keep the panic of such a dark place at bay...
Only one of these places is somewhere I'd ever want to find myself again...