"You've slept too much, you've waited too long."
The lines on the book spines all broken now. In occasional flashlights you catch glimpses of forgotten plans, misshaped maps, and in doped up jerks realize at times that you've dreamed too little, and avoided the effort to change a fate, a horizon line, an epigastric collusion. And just kept following the easiest path.
You've been too lazy to move and sat half-satisfied half-content with watching words and afternoons and sunsets go by almost unnoticed, while barely aware of forgotten dreams, stocked up on piles and piles of dust and unfinished medication bottles, sitting quietly disappearing in a closet on the back.
You haven't fed yourself enough, dreaming up words occasionally, haphazardly.
One day you wake up to the sound of this old tango and the day is lost in the haze of forgotten paths and plans and hopes. You realize some mistakes, or at least what you've left behind in the process. in this process.
You think of feeding and retro-feeding, you remember foamy cups and medialunas. You just sit there. Silent. Consumed. Remember a cat you had so many years ago, and the streets of a city you're too old to reach.
Recall a lost love. a few. An accordion.
Sin café, sin medialunas.