miiyuki

  His room is a pale green wonder in a city of reds and blues. Everything is dissheveled, the pictures hang sideways and the posters, adjacent from his windows, are arranged in a choppy, undecipherable order. He told me once that he’d never put a poster up because he’d liked the picture. That there was always a meaning. I sit on his carpet and finger with my toes. There was a bottle of whiskey next to me and my eyes were shining like porcelain. “You know,” he continued, “we are like flowers. Beautiful in our youth, but soon withered by age and abuse,” he swished his whiskey in his glass and sipped it smoothly