stipple you out...

It's cold.

I'm sitting here with my knees up to my neck, wearing this very ugly but warm woolen sweater you knitted me 3 winters ago (it's a little too small now). I'm cracking my fingers, scratching at scars, rubbing my eyelids and flipping through a miniature booklet full of crosshatching and stipplings, both which really fascinate me.

I'm lonely is this big house when no one else is home, which is most of the time. The sounds of emptiness hollow my heart and make my eyes water (which is probably why I rub them so much).

As I finish studying the last piece of art in the miniature booklet, I realize I've been flipping the pages for 3 hours (which is probably why I've been cracking my fingers). I toss the book into the garbage and then think about how you would probably love to spend an afternoon flipping through it, so I go and retrieve it from the trash... and burn it.

More then likely you are out there now with one of your boyfriend's, playing card games or drinking some highly potent but very tasty alcoholic drink. You might even be having sex, hell, who knows!?

I'll tell you who knows. Nobody knows. But there is one thing I do know, if I know anything at all. I know that when you're done with your card games, or drunken banterings about world hunger, or having your last orgasm, you're going to go back to your home (as big and empty as mine is). You're going to go to your room and shut the door behind you and lock it in a habitual fashion. You're going to take off your purple leggings and put on the pajama pants I gave you a couple of winters ago (of course, they're a little too small also). You're going to reach under your mattress and pull out your journal (pages 1-16 are about us, and pages 16 on are about cardboard, rubber erasers, and everything else boring in your life). Then, you're going to realize that it's full, so you will turn to the back cover which is a pale brown (and perfect for crosshatching). You're going to take a pen, draw a star on your thumb, and then play a game of x's and O's with yourself. X. O. X. O. X... and then you'll realize that you're the only person giving yourself x's and o's anymore.

Don't even bother calling me. My house is on fire and I can't hear the phone.