deserted_ bijou you promised, blinking this is the last night our fingers and toes twisted together so i don't even know which ones are mine. the same expanse of flannel, a desert of fuzz across the bed. i'm crawling across lost with my hands in the sand and my mouth dry for whiskey lips and eyelids. the fan is no substitute for your hot breath. the buzz of the blades is not your beating heart. i had to turn it on because my thoughts were floating up to the ceiling and getting stale. it's getting hard to breathe in here. 020902 what's it to you? who go blather from