The gaps and the cracks.
My teeth have cracks now, I used to open up beer bottles with them. Back when I thought – no I believed - that I was invincible and me and my teeth would last forever. Forever with no cracks, not noticing my lips and the way that they stick, the way that they seep in between the gaps, the gaps and the cracks.
They way that they are keeping me awake.
The coffee rush is rising up from my gut, coming up through my throat and giving me that breath that I always smelt with old people.
Tooth decay, decay.
I’m breathing and thinking of my lungs as sponges and I think about the sticky tar that may or may not be fusing them together, forever, closing them down. The years and years of smoking; of Horizons, of Winfields, of Stuyvesant when I was fancy, of Holidays when I was broke.
Broke and desperate.
A way of being that is all too familiar. Familiar in the inevitable kind of way. Of that just around the corner kind of way, of that this is my fortune kind of way.
My kind of way.
Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.