Dull thumbnails

The veins running down my forearms to my hands remind me of deltas. They reach out to the knuckles. Marks on the skin remain longer, the the memories of how they got there are shorter.

Who's going to drive me home, tonight?

1/4 or A Quarter

$0.25. That's it... only one. Can't watch much porn with that, but it's enough to get the cute boy from the parking lot into the booth. The Old Man hesitates. But then motel room is so appealing and.. la la la la la... it happened... I'm in my room as this story is being told to me and I'm smiling. It's fun. I'm 30--almost. And this is what life is supposed to be full of; moments of touching sentiment wrapped in music--NSNYC. Mr. M-J-T.

The scent

Shivering. He's curled in a ball to my left, resting his head in my lap. I put a blanket over as much of him that I can, but it's awkward in the back seat of my car. It's 4am. The leather seats are cold and the night's cold is unrelenting. The heat of just moments before has faded and I stroke his hair, sharing my warmth to defrost his heart. I can't take care of him any more than he can himself, but I think about it as the scent of our sex disapates.

Home is this room in Irvine. Home is in the hearts of those that will share my birthday this weekend. Home is a blueprint waiting to be built.