raffishly, i slipped away from a smallish pre-pride weekend party last night.
this morning, one of those where the grey intrudes into every other living color, the whiteness of the guy’s wife beater glares in the foot of my bed. his undershirt and the dampness in the other side of the bed are all what's left of him.
his crumpled undershirt, like a fetish after a seance. heavy the spell-like stillness it gives my morning.