02-05-09

Isabella Street: Approaching Wood Street

The Whore by ~myshelleyg on deviantART

Bus Stop.

It’s 11:10 at night, willing away the 2.5 glasses of chard and 1.5 shots of whiskey that didn’t ease away the pain. Cold night chills the sun. Could doubt chills my soul, brings tears to the eyes. Waiting patiently for the fucking train. Never comes.

11:11

Bargaining. If it doesn’t come by 11:15 I go back up the stairs to mainstreet and hit the local pub. Marriage or pub, marriage or pub. Which will it be?

11:12

Darkness down the line bings no hope. A high ball of Jack and Coke before a lousy 6 hours of sleepand lonleyness throughout or

11:14

Do I meet him at the station? Sit down on the cold, steel bench and make amends

11:15

You are not the one. I needed you so badly to be the one. A train passes in the opposite direction. I could waste 40 minutes waiting fo it’s return journey, catch it on the inbound. Could waste 6 months on nothing.

11:16

A train comes inbound, one minute short of true happiness, one minute short of faith. I jump on and head downtown. Towards you, waiting ten minutes too late for me and my dunken stupor. Ten minutes too late for me and my idiotic tendencies.

19 stops to you. “Approaching Potomac.” 18. 18 stops to you. Your icy, glass eyes. 10 minutes late but you, you are 15. 15 minutes late.

I imagine we will kiss on the bridge, much like the night before. $100 on my ring, $100 on yours. I’ll buy the crazy dress from the shop on the way to the station. We will celebrate on my grandfather’s farm, long since state property and the home to hundreds of weddings.

“Approaching Coast.” 12 stops. 12 stops till I meet you in the dark, icy “T” station and hand you back your sweatshirt. 12 stops until I jump the train back home, outbound.

“Approaching Fallowfield.” 11 stops. Halfway between fairytale and losing a friend. I blame this on you. If it weren’t for you I wouldn’t have hung honey off of my tongue. Wouldn’t have started this madness that has left me exhausted and numb, heading in bound on a trip destined for failure before it was ever conceived.

An old man sits down in front of me. The smell of old cigarettes wafts across the ways. He gets off as quickly as he enters, a figment of my drunken disillusions.

“Approaching Station Square.” Four stops to you. My drunkeness giving way to slow, mind consuming exhaustion. I die to taste your lips upon mine once more, feel your body lifting through your clothes and pressing against mine.

First Avenue and two. Steel Plaza and one. The driver bids good night to the patron exiting, dressed in black. The city is lit in the backdrop, lights pooling across the top of the water. We dissapear underground and all is lost to me.

“Approaching Wood Street.”

Notes: I’m not entirely sure who this was written about, it’s followed by a rough match stick figure study for what I was calling “The Red Coat” at the time. This was later renamed “The Whore” Which is above. I’ll try to get these scanned and posted. Looking further ahead in the journal, it may be from my relationship with a leprechaun.