It’s in the air here. The growing stench of mediocrity and desperation. It wafts through the city like an ocean breeze tingeing, eroding the quality of life around us. This is not you, you are not this, but the wind confuses you; keeps you down. Convinced that your finest qualities have all but turned to ash, and blown away, you find other ways to feel. You’ve never been able to handle criticism, and when I find you, finally, in the guestroom of another nameless mansion, the needle is already centimeters deep in your arm. You are determined to forget the world. I am determined not to let you. You tell me the half-bath which we are occupying – as you wipe the vomit from your chin - is twice the size of any apartment you have ever rented. I believe you. Your frustrations are not wasted upon me, but mine are growing. You must be mad not to recognize the familiarity in my voice. My dreams. My fears. It is rare that I am able to connect with anyone. It is rare that you want to. But we do. I wrap you tightly in my sweater, and tell you it was only a mistake. You tell me that you will make it again. I believe this too, and I take you home anyway. We will begin the vicious cycle again tomorrow, but tonight I will hold you through it. You, sweating through my sheets. Me, crying quietly into my pillow case. Hoping a new day will bring the answers which we seek; that my love will bring you to your feet. I believe.
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Tennessee Martin
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