Hmmmmmm...it feels good to stretch my tired bones.

Bones that grind against each other fitfully, protesting, hating me because I cannot stop walking. I'm sorry feet, for I strap you into the bondage of stilettoes and still I'll walk. I'm sorry, legs, for all the fences I've ever jumped and all the barbed wire I've made you caress. Arms, for holding onto the man that has your hotel room key and faking the poorest imitation of affection. I'm sorry, face, for waking up each day and forcing you to look in the mirror, so I can see past the bars of my little prison. But most of all, I want to say I'm sorry to my hands, because it seems that I'm trying to make them hold onto mostly nothing at all.

I sit there and I'll read your blogs, and laugh and wonder and cry and just stare, and you seem more real than the faces I skim past each day.

Do you blur into existence and just shimmer out, like a half-hoped pipe dream?

Do you see me?

So another new year goes slipping out, out under the door and through the cracks of my floorboards, like dying afternoon sunlight and my only wish is that it'll take my regrets along with it. Giving up, because after a fitful sleepless night I'll just wake up in the morning and realize, it's been a long day.

So Happy New Year, and know that I'm smiling, if only a bit crookedly.

Whatever comes next, is the way it's always gonna be.

Did I mean to speak of immortal longings when I've been bound by my mortal leisure?

And when it rains, it scours away the snow that's been sitting there so full of itself, glutted on the misery of those it makes cold.  It was what they call a beautiful day, with an afternoon that had me staring at the sky, wishing I could tail a sweeping cloud that stretches across the sky like it coils around my soul and close my eyes and end up...somewhere not here.  And when my eyes return to earth I find that I've lost my heart in the endless expanse of the sky that stolen my heart so many times before.  It doesn't feel to be grinning among the gravel that will indeed scratch your face when you fall on it.

How ungainly.

The paint has been scraped thin across the mockery of an undeniable whore, she sits straddling the best in her profession and she like so many before her is what is truly eternal...Miss Bell, you are what we all want to be and it shows in your aged face.

Me.

And then no.

It gets so devilishly cold, this New York City winter, the kind that's been around for ages and it's a hunger that lets you sets you free from immortal longings when you're simply walking up and down streets that were once lined with the smiles of summer.

The end of the story is upon me yet I don't know what to say

I feel like it's coming back, that to wander once more along the waterfront on a lonely winding day in Brooklyn where I see the city that calls me home and wonder if I could return to the life I knew I had to murder.  It was a crime, they used to say, but oh if the blood falling on the snow isn't like poppies blooming silently in a field of white then you'll call to me, I shall answer and the colour of my soul is opened to the world.

It seems so much more intimate, when ironclad clouds have unrolled over the skies, so that the needlelike buildings are not thrusting upwards into the wild blue yonder of eternity but.  Piercing the soft grey underbelly of sleeping gods.

Hmmm smiiling to myself

A long white smile in the darkness

Steam rises in banked waves from her aged youthful tired exuberant body she leaves the crevice of her soul the dancing club and steps outside for a cigarette.  Give her a light, stupid.  Want a light?  Sure, cocks her head sideways like an errant Glock 18 and inhales and grimaces again...passable for a smile I'm supposing.  She dances her life when eyes dig into her soul but she's up there in

ecstasy

ecstasy there's nothing like it

and forgets.

To not watch you sing is not why I bring my own peculiar brand of sadness to the arena of the anonymous, that's the girl that goes home with no one but melts into the snowfall and comes in inconstancy.  Show me your life and what is the tragedy.  Else remember me not because the night is never where you found it first.

So what is it?

Love, I mean.  I'm not who you think I am, and you are just a passing phantom to me, but do you love me?  Please, this is important.  If I looked urgently into your eyes and asked a question unsaid that hung heavy in the air like a divine afterthought that transpired out of heavenly musing and I whispered LOVE ME don't turn away.  This place is cold, 'cause a draft comes in from the back window where the frame doesn't fit good with the wall no more and the papers are always flapping in the invisible breeze.  My reflection sneers back at me who's underfed and overwhelmed just like this tarnished gilt I'm full of guilt and remorse.

But eyes without colour.

I get a chill but not because you're standing in my doorway watching me undress. 

It's fifty goddamn degrees Farenheit.  Fuck you too.

Thieves who rob in the dead of the night and let the falling snow cover their footprints and provide an impeccable alibi, if you've come to steal me of my warmth go find somebody else because there's nothing left for you to take.  Left the bottle uncapped now I smell the alcohol cloying the air with its organic arsenic but by God I swear to you I will leave.

I'm escaping.

Can I give up the faithless hunt that never leads to redemption leaves me restless unsettled and forever startled out of memory.

I don't want to be the face in the window that won't look out towards the greying sky anymore.

Whatever happened to the days when I wanted to search for the unformed ideal that haunted my footsteps as I made my way to the I don't know?  When I wondered and wandered and thought that I could live in this world without loving it.

It's the hell that's emblazoned inside of you, makes you writhe in your own skin.

O Saint Bartholomew.