I woke up to a sunny day with a tight knot in my stomach. Weather’s that of a mother’s womb and the sunlight bends right before it touches my window. I lay still as a rock, tracing the stains crafted by the rain on my ceiling with my eyes. Fading then drifting past the laced curtains, slipping through the metallic mesh of mosquito screen into a place where clocks never breathe. Where clocks stand still like broken windmills and bandwagons viciously ripped apart. Lover, this is a place you’ve been. This is a place I’ve been meaning to explore. On this day, all roads of consciousness led me to this place. And like a dog on a leash, I watch myself glide with your every step.

Sweet siren, in this forgotten city, I am a song freshly stamped and neatly cataloged in your library; just like every single woman you’ve been with. I am a braid of melodies sewn together by factory machines oiled, powered, magnified by your lust for words and your greed for self-preservation. Tug. Clip. Rip. Pierce. Mourn. “Love.” I am the audience of the present and you are a vinyl spinning endlessly. “Love.” I am summoned by the echo “Love… love… love…” hailed from time immemorial.

Lover, your lips, they lied.

cigarettegirls