A bit more prose

I can't do this anymore. This waiting for a movie scene. The fever has returned and the hallucinations are looming. The symptoms come back like a quick one in the park. I wait for those moments and then realize I'm bleeding. I rub the spots in the carpet until my fingertips are hard. I thumb my temples, leaving the cleaner on the floor. No rag, I don't meddle with those things. The scene returned to memory and so I returned to the spot and rubbed it clean out until the blood had seaped into my crevices: the ones that can give me away, the ones that can't be replaced. The fever is fading and I can't recall what I was about to pen. Something about Macbeth and how I didn't flatter myself. The lights flooded the room and you grabbed my hand unabashedly. As if I wanted you to. As if I had asked. The lights dimmed before you saw my blushed fingertips and so you fondled them unaware of the residue. He was shot that year in San Fransisco. Perhaps assassinated is the proper term but my mind was somewhere else. I feel my tongue go numb. Strange, you know, feeling feeling slip away. I tongued the cavity in my molar. I didn't realize my tongue was cut until I felt the blood run down my throat. A new spot on the floor. Good, I thought, since my fingertips were becoming soft again. The cough returned too and I grabbed a plum-colored bowl from the cupboard to spit in. It was heavier than the others: the turquoise, the daffodil, the mustard. My wrists clenched under the weight and as I cupped the bowl, I stumbled to the couch. I coughed and blood ran down to the bowl, connected us for a moment, and then snapped. My eyelids closed for a moment and stuck when I tried to look up. Words are fading now and I don't think there are any big enough to carry the weight. No nooks to cuddle into but ones that could tip at any moment. Ink is beginning to linger at the bottom of letters now: a sign of my neurosis. Something one might want to look at in a manuscript. But I don't flatter myself. I write around themes and motifs that I wish applied to me and know never will. I like it that way: the distance, the fondling, the thick fuzzy lines.