dance with me

by Arran James

I was dancing among the young, all of us young and intoxicated and body without thought, desire without guilt. And then the end of the night comes and with it the walk home in the cold and bitter night alone. Hands deep in pockets. A taste of vomit on the lips. Swerving while walking, stumbling sometimes. Toward the mess with a bed among it. Toward the wardrobe full of a remnants. Aching. Tears come as I climb the stairs. I fear sleeping and I fear waking up. I’m sweating a profound loneliness. Flakes of dandruff settle on my shoulders. An almost mystical sense of separation. The certainty that nothing means fuck all. I stare at the bicycle I never ride gathering rust and I know that beneath this mottled skin I too am rusting. I try not to think about burning my skin. I try not to think about monstrosities. I murmur to myself a fragment about love and cruelty, some nonsense I take to be profound. I know the centre of everything is empty and that this life, this earth, this universe is one continuous error that will sometime meet it’s correction. But still, I had danced. I had danced and laughed and felt wonderful things.