sunday 14.01

The fog continues to dance and the air that I breathe is past frigid.
My fingers are numb and my head pounds as I too am forced to dance. I am clumbsy and do not know the steps. My feet remain swollen and Ashley tries to lick the pain, almost creating an open wound on an already sore spot near my tattooed ankle that bruised sometime on Saturday.
I continue with a pasted smile on my face and wait for the phone to ring and today, it did not.
I am withdrawn, not dillusional.
I reach for my bottle and place a measured amount of morphine under my tongue and chug the bitterness down with a slushy juice from Odwalla. I swallow the pulp in hopes of keeping my throat moist.

I dream about slumber and stare at a closet in front on me, drawing pictures through the essence of a table lamp.