Smells and fluids

We sweat like newborns. I smell everyone, specially her as she walks among us. She sways herself through my friends and I smell her, she smells of rotten hope and lonely sex. She enters the bar in a cloud of green smoke. I control myself provoking the newlyweds, asking about their mothers.

Then I ask the birthdayboy about our failures and I loose myself for a while, but soon I face her going out for a smoke. She comes out with me awkwardly but inviting. We find ourselves very close to each other as we dance trying to open the doors of the bar. She looks at me with curiosity.

I walk wet streets full of steam with her. We smoke and we talk. I see her caves and swamps. Her soggy terrors. Her stupid insecurities. We walk until there is no more street and she stops me, right when I was starting to talk about her mother.

She goes up the stairs to her apartment and masturbates as soon as she feels the sheets on her bed. The dark reminds her of me.

Meanwhile I walk home, evading drunk fiends and lost souls. When I finally get there, I write about her smell and dedicate her a beautiful orgasm that is somewhat invaded by images of my friend's girl and most redundantly by my ex-wife.

I'm sure she dreams of me, even though she won't ever remember it. I feel like I'm the dream fertilizer, I'm whatever will free her. She sees me as a shinning light until she realizes I'm not. I am just another stake through her heart. I am not here to free her, I am here to make her cry. But I'll never have a chance to do it.

I wish I could.