mourning languid sunday mornings. you used to step into the room, naked and tentative, peeking around the corner to see if the shades were drawn. you would crawl into my lap, your skin still hot from sleep and your cunt still wet from sex. i would carry you to the couch and feed you strawberries and cream for breakfast while you sucked on my ear. when we were lying in bed, you would crawl onto my chest and i knew that at least one of us was telling the truth as i wrapped my arms around you. you sighed and murmured nothing as sweet as your cunt in your sleep. you made me feel as though i were an otter, opening an oyster to get at the pearl grown from an irritating grain of sand and finding only the smell of fish and taste of salt inside. now my holidays are hollow days that never seem to end, unwritten letters that i never meant to send. i have no words left to say. they all seem meaningless. the paper remains blank and the inkwell stays full. the blotter is still unstained to my dismay and envy. the quiet hum of the pharmacy almost lulls me to sleep as i wait for someone to say my name. and i suppose you might call this a growth experience. i call it a prescription for disaster.