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I've been in this bathroom looking myself over for the last five minutes.
Lost contemplating the amassing lines and crevaces on my smile, at the edge of my eyes... on my constantly befuddled brow.
When did the handsome boy die? Replaced by this empty ambitionless man.
I used to chase stars, I used to smell heaven. I used to live for the impossibility of true love.
That I could fix anything. I could help anyone.
That I could some day be perfect.
A few handfuls of water, a fresh spray of spit on the mirror and he's still there, looking back at me with uneven features, and a sloped hairline... just like my cowlick twenty years ago.
Twenty years... and I'm still somehow here.
I thought little boys disapeared after 16.
That there was no life after that. Just a snap of the fingers, a click of the zinc pin and the wonderful alchemy of black grit to fire, propelling a metal orb that vanished us away.
Death is magic. So is sex.
And these days things have been a bit mundane.
