A Principled Lady

Today I arranged all your blue ties in royals and whites in rubies. It's 3 am, midnight has passed beyond measure. No, I don't blame you. You exactly rolled over like I calculated on the bedsheet I de-creased last Sunday with your jagged but lovely eyes. You asked if I am okay. Why didn't you ask if I am warm enough? Why didn't this, why didn't that. You handsome moron, it's the more appropriate question to ask because it gets cold and dewy and wet on nights like these. Okay, okay I hear the aftershots of your laughter that told me or asked me or doubted me, my conscience, if I was that crazy perfectionist.

You want to know. 

It's scary. 

You. Want. To. Know. 

What am I doing at this hour of your time? I am cutting it in unequal parts. The last slice would be principled math.

Understood. Now, close your eyes for me and turn me blind. I am counting on the reverse. 

Ten. You are never on time because the cologne smelled bad.

Nine. You killed your daughter when you could hang her upside down that tree. The cologne would have smelled better on the holocaust of her dipping hairline.

Don't look at me like that, I melt. For God's sake just take it. Take the decimal. 

Eight point five. You pluck it because you are lazy. This is a very dull afternoon, there's nothing else to do. There are just too many flowers anyway. Nip the bud. Nip the bud. 

Zero. You don't. I don't, grieve for the dead. Dead die daily. 

Minus one. They tell me tales. Stay there. Don't come to life. Come to life then. Stay there. 

My room is full of photocopies and your tie is exactly where my hands were last night. 

Out.