thinking about smoky bars and lipstick smudges on glass from far away, and the kind of feeling you only get when you're watching the angels across the room and one of them turns, for just a second, to acknowledge you
we know the feeling well from when we thought we were of them in a way we now know we never can be. we know it from days in casino convention halls and nights in strange hotel rooms, from girls with floppy red mohawks and balding Masons with coins and walking-sticks
we never really let it get far enough, though; never let it run to its logical conclusion, those glaces turning to stares and stares turning to sharp, razor-beautiful smiles; the easy confidence of an angel who knows exactly what she needs to clear her head, taking the hand of a girl who's clearly in too deep
there are stories of the next year's convention policy including a fee specifically for cleaning blood off the hotel room walls. i actually met the girl, once, and her angel, though maybe not that same one; I never managed to talk to her, I was too envious
that's all it takes to get in my pants, it turns out. just show me your care much more about your own needs than my basic wellbeing.
any volunteers? angels to the front.
#EmptySpaces