For Lorn

My own body odor's grown sour to the nose. Food has lost its savor. The winter sun is a flaccid thing, a taunt instead of a gift. Mia has gone to New York, you see, on some cryptic errand, and I've started to come apart at the seams.

I spent the weekend in forced merriment. Unable to work on the song cycle, I thrust myself out into the world of the living, filling my hollow head with various white and brown liquors and plastering a smile to the front of me. Making the rounds at the local art openings, sipping cheap wine and taking in the work of others, I couldn't help but feel like I was neglecting my own work. The manuscript sat at home, while I was out gallivanting, my ears bombarded by disco and garage rock and a rash of other corruptive genres. It took a Sunday filled with pulsing quiet to cleanse my mind of such degrading influences, and I fear their memory may resurface still, spoiling the insular purity of my project.

Hopefully a new song will begin to blossom tomorrow, degraded or not—the reservoir's been running dry lately. That's actually why I went out in the first place. I'd become convinced I needed outside stimulation, that the reason I couldn't work was a lack of fuel, from sucking constantly at the dried-up teat of my attic room. And the world was delightful for a moment—Chance's new paintings were glorious, and several old friends had come out of the woodwork to witness them. But as the night wore on, and I grew weary of my clown's dance, I began to realize the true weight of Mia's absence. It is easy to play artiste and demand your space when your lover's right down the street, but absence makes the heart grow at odd angles. Now I wanted nothing more than to cuddle up beside the gorgeous creature, murmuring slurred paeans to her tender little ears. I could think of nothing else.

By this time tomorrow her legs will be laced through mine, and I will be snoring quietly as she clings to my furred back. For now though, I scribble, unable to sleep. Building a slanted lean-to out of looseleaf paper, a tiny house for her to crawl into when she returns.