Thursday, December 20, 2012

Dust devils

Scatter my ashes where I can see them, swirling in air currents, a predetermined dance that has been leading to this all along. I'm tired of you people. Just tired. We all know the ending. A pencil sketch is the most appropriate representation, the smudges the curl of your hand makes pressed against the lines you've drawn. Those are the words you can't gather to say to me. It's okay. Fuck it, let's just get this over with and draw. Count of ten. Or is time irrelevant. Or have you already drawn, betrayed me. My ashes mixed with gun powder, swirling in air currents.