Quietly.
kitten   May 29, 2008

She was there, and we all knew it, moving like poetry. Those delicate glances, chin down and eyes up with an awkward grin directed mostly at the floor. In another frame of mind I'd call it coy, but that depends on a certain realisation of allure, a realisation she denies herself. Two deft fingers point at a beer, the bartop, and as if by magic, her drink appears before her, expertly. Cropped blonde hair parting for her fingers as she takes a drink, all eyes on the aching geometry of her profile. All eyes but mine, fixated instead on pale curves that form the back of her neck, revealed by the ministrations of her fingertips aginst her locks, splaying cloud-pale flesh ready for lips and teeth. And somehow she senses my gaze, or so I think, boring scalding ever needing into taut pretty tendons, so she turns, and I avert my eyes, pretending to study the fixtures of the ceiling with nails digging into my palms.

Boulevard.
kitten   May 28, 2008

If my shadow is the only one who will walk with me, then yesterday's sky, gunmetal heavy clouds intimidating the sun into hiding, doesn't bode well. Nor today's cold hard rain, nor tomorrow's lurking fog. Looking up into it, eyes set harsh against interminable mist, I might be as empty as that sky. That's the easy answer: blame the medium, critique the instrumentation, all bleak perfection and completely oblivious. The words in that milieu are the important pieces, the empathy behind them drawing the line between toying and sincerity, like a camera shutter closes and irrevocably separates there from here. But there you remain, adrift in your pretty little there, so from from here. The forecast calls for rain; no shadow walks beside me.

Trust your technolust.
kitten   May 27, 2008

Recently at work I had to install three different operating systems on three identical laptops. I am forever bitching about how obnoxious Windows is, especially when compared to modern Linux distros like Ubuntu, but it's been hard to qualify my statements until now.

This post contains a lot of griping about computers. If you don't care, move along.

More...

Rain.
kitten   May 12, 2008

Twelve city blocks through rain, heavy night sticking to me, stalking miles of asphalt to salvation from a savior never held, voice only heard, a presence that cares nothing for such a trifling plight. Headlights, brakelights, heartache, reality, the temptation to embrace flitting away from all I know is right. And in the harsh lighting of halogen and vapor, where's the angelic whisper which I've come to know so well? She is haunting the lives of those misguided like me, revelling in her freedom to break another devoted mind, and she'll never stop, and another is down, another broken. With arms to the sky, I meant the rain to cleanse me, purify, to wash away her song, and for one smiling moment I believed myself saved. Yet the grasp she has around me never wavers, never loosens, and my laughter in the darkness fades. Left once more in the shivering evening, I may seek refuge in dawn's foreign hills, there secretly to pledge to her yet another oath of all I have to give.

Digital moments.
kitten   May 6, 2008

An indifferent voice, cold, mechanical, announces one message saved, archived; a little secret of mine stored for those times I need the sound of you in my ear. It's rarely accessed, to be sure; some distant touch of fear preventing me from listening too often, like I'd be caught in the midst of some deception. But in those moments of weakness, a few sure keystrokes brings those breathy vocals back, and for a brief time as I listen I am there, unearthing all the things locked away I have in response. Remembering things that may be, may have never been, sometimes so hard to tell: your lips opening to warmth in the chilled night of Midtown Square, arms wrapping around each other against the hum of evening traffic. And you step back, recede into distance, despite my plea, as the recording ends with a harsh reminder of how artificial I feel. To delete this message, and I miss you now, press one. To save this message, press one.

One.