Worrying

She's sitting on the floor, her head between my legs. There's some shitty chat-show on the box, Ricky Lake I think. My glass is getting dangerously low, but I don't want to get up to refill it because I kind of like everything as it is right now, and I'm aware as always of how fragile that feeling is. I'm playing with her hair, just doodling¦ funny, but the contours of her scalp are somehow mesmerising: I guess that I'm just in love, that's all. She could fart right now, a real stinker, and I'd think it was sublime. Some people are poets without even writing poetry¦ every move they make; every gesture; every sound. She's yawning, now, and God, she must be tired! The amount of rohypnol I slipped into her drink¦
I think that I'll be taking her to bed pretty soon.