The Typist and I

The man typing next to me is obnoxious, but it took me till just now to notice. It sounds as if every time he hits a key he's making some grand point in a verbal argument by poking me in the chest. It annoys me. My sunken eyes feel swollen
* *
My veins are tight, my skin doesn't fit, wound around a pinky with a pedicure. My soul feels like leather and my gums feel raw. The itch is pushing on the back of my eyes. I want this fire out. I'm well rested but I need a coma, local anastesia. My tongue is tied in dry knots but I speak like a poet.
* *
There's my best friend the typist again, hitting the backspace key eighty thousand times like he's starting all over at the beginning. Has this guy used a typewriter his entire insanely long life or is he writing a very unpleasant letter? I dont care enough to wonder or move to a different spot.

I like it here, I just don't like who I'm near.

* *
My blood feels dry, still moving but dry. Dragging through my cardboard veins Like ten thousand grit sandpaper. The charge subsides and I sink back in my chair. Feet shuffle paper shuffles, the typist hammers, a zipper clicks.

No words, no information and no good reason to notice.

* *
Now I do love the sound of a person who can type. I love when a woman with long nails types and you hear all the different clicks like echoes. It's soothing like someone rubbed oil the earth's axis and everything's goin smoothly. There he is again, I can't shake this guy.... Hours passed, wasted, gone... and I flinch almost every time this guy hits a key with what must be his middle finger.
* *
I feel dead or on fire... I don't mean to be a cynic, in fact I mean not to be, I am my own reverse psychologist.
She stole my gravity and gave me depravity, now I'm only attracted to her and I get nothing in return...
 
The more I notice the more I fidget, the more I fidget the more I itch, the more I itch the more I scratch and the more I scratch the more the more I notice...
 
My eyes are drawn, my blood moves in swarms but one glance takes the pain and rusts my soul till that much less of me is left. My eyes are drawn, they feel ripped in half, I can't help but feel the thoughts... they leak into my neck down my heart and through my hands. I have to choke the beast, just another week, I can hold on, like that she's gone and for now my pain subsides...

I can't write down what it tastes like but imagine sucking your tongue to the roof of your mouth till both hurt. now do that with thumbtacks. It's like sunburn. It's like sand paper.
* *
Don't ever try to be the most loving in a relationship, you'll end up being outdone or ignored. You'd be surprised how quickly people give up on you when you want them to like you, but the second you stop caring your glance could kill them.

**
Then I went home.