life

he held life in his arms. his own face contorted into half-smile as he looked around the room every so often so as to not be seen lost staring into the liquid, blinking eyes of the babe - the allure, blue, fresh and new and innocent and naive and understanding and knowing, somehow, and welcoming and incapable of judgment. just blinking and...trying.

the once lively and angular shape of his own face had been naturally deformed and aged, from the fast-living manner in which he navigated his own trashy life, and was no longer a pleasure to see in the mirror - never mind actually making eye contact with himself, a long since extinct act of confidence. only ever shifting between orange-peel, bulb nose; melting candle cheeks; bag of water chin; and carpeted staircase forehead. the eyes jaundiced from self-inflicted mental maladies and sufferings and attempted escapes of internal repressions and always squinting painfully at this point anyway.

"life is a black hole" he said to the babe.

and so he tried then to think of something more profound to say, because how many times in your life do you hold life in your own arms? something memorable that could be etched into stone and told by his friends to other friends or by his parents to their friends as a statement of pride of a grown-adult-and-well-composed-and-spoken son. but his mouth was bone dry nervous and his speech patterns vacuous and; anyway, his knotted dustball thoughts disallowed anything in terms of statements with stellar quotational status: "life. you-fuck." he said then as he touched it, life, with back of his bony, scaly fingers. "you-little-Fuck." whispering.