Tag Archives: pork roast farts

Gertrude Part Six

24 Nov

I fucking treasure this sadness.  I treasure that I wake up hugging my pillow and in my half dreams I thought it was you.  But your hair was just the cat’s tail.  I have seriously wept unconscious tears into my cat’s tail– that is a Shakespearean level of sadness in today’s world.  If I had something that smelled like you I would smell it.  But I don’t.  Not even my sheets.  The night I realized you were gone I made a pork roast and farted like Vesuvius for hours and hours in my sleep.  I tried to sniff the spot where you slept and… it was a mistake.

I fucking treasure this.  Remembering your hair.  Your kiss.  God damn, you were a great kisser.  Gentle.  Every little motherfucking thing, things too corny to type.  I relish missing them.  This pain.  The way a leper relishes burning his hand on a candle.  I can still feel something.  This particular thing, desiring somebody, wanting them to be around, and them wanting to be around.  Even if relationships like this, between stunted people, people who fuck strangers in toilet stalls– relationships for us are like milk left on the counter on a hot day.  But it’s nice to know that it can exist. Continue reading