artificial vanilla flavor

my skin is getting brown and my hair is getting long and i hardly think you'd recognize me, though i haven't changed at all. i'm carving songs of reversal onto the ceiling and reading between the blades of the fan while the walls swell and creak and sweat and the wind knocks the my cigarettes from the sill, scattering toasty tobacco thru my twisted sheets. there's bike wheels stacked in the living room and pink hair dye staining the sink, and we only cross paths bleary-eyed and half-dressed, leaving latenight showers or leaning over sleepy breakfasts before dashing off again. i'm considering a fling with that one in the tight pants and spiky hair (let's fling each other around and apart), the one who feigns aloofness. i've no patience for remainders. i'm a blackboard with too many smudges and i just switched back to my old pair of shoes, the ones that stayed dry all rainy winter. it's a thirsty deluge and a sweaty t-shirt and a pile of books we meant to read ages ago. crack open that dictionary and start again.