last night i dreamt my bones were in the midst of metamorphosis, mutating, twisting. the doctors didn't know what to do as i writhed in the most exquisite pain.
perhaps i have grown tired of misery. after small pockets of bliss such as the past few days have been i always seem to question the beauty of it, the poetry in despair. it no longer holds the same appeal to me. it always returns, though, sooner or later. as i write this, even, it beckons.
but i ate, for his benefit more than my own, more than i ate in this entire week. his father's girlfriend is a great cook. and as i inhaled secondhand smoke on his porch i felt home. something i haven't felt, really, since being a child. i belonged there, in the dying afternoon with the sun's embrace and that look in his eye.
however i must return to my scheduled deprivation. nothing that good is supposed to be tangible - i need to feel the reality of hunger once more.