by Tomorrow's Man
Maybe it's the pennies on the kitchen floor, or the socks like snakeskins beneath the futon in the livingroom. Maybe. But right now, feeding my cats, and drinking Pernod with ice and water, and listening to Tom Waits, and sleeping alone night after night feels more pathetic than precious, and I know I just wanted to be warmed by another's skin to try to make sense of all this before I finally throw my luggage off this train and walk down the roof of the caboose.
There are pennies on the floor, but they can't even buy me a free phone call to the person I need to beg to be by my side right now.
She's out of range.
The socks like snakeskins, they just remind me how something so simple, so animal, can change.
She's out of range.