Thursday 1/04/2007 11:07:00 PM

He had a paper scalp. Tiny origami sculptures in every single hair. I used to unfold them and start to write. Random words. With an urgent disinterest too alike the wheeze of a ventilator as it keeps our dead loves within our grasp. Love is like the crevice tool on a vacuum. It finds the dirt in the deepest recesses of our lives.

I would knead his skin. Like an artist's eraser. Massaging out every mistake. Catching the bristles that would fall from the brush. As it hummed over the canvas of the moment. So far from the colors it wanted.

I used to draw. When the stab of pencil points were still sharp in strangers' glances. I used to trace. In permanent marker. The voids around them. the nothing that proved they had been there.

I was an asterisk. An anything. A nothing.

Spitting on the breadcrumbs. Pissing on the path. Angry that the forest still didn't know who I was.

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