i can't stand it when people complain of being bored.

boredom is simply a lack of imagination. laziness.

but man, was i lacking today. when i get like this i try to avoid as much social interaction as possible... but i usually end up babbling some melancholy post on this page.

gray, cold and sterile. the room was even apathetic. we sat, staring at anything but each other. he chose the inside of his eyelids, while i concentrated on a seam where the sailboats on the wallpaper didn't quite match up.

i wanted to leave, but was afraid that he would hold it against me later on.

the day started off for me at 3am. to the sound of my mother's voice sounding an awful lot like mine did whenever i called her into my room for comforting in the middle of the night. being that i went to sleep around 1:30... i was right smack in the middle of my first rem cycle.

i remember the sounds he used to make unconsciously while he was painting. and his tongue- it was always moving. painfully obvious that he was more intensely involved with making art than he was making love.

i used to try and mimic the sounds during our intimate sessions to try and draw something from him. deep down, though... i knew that he had no idea.

thrown completely off guard, i sat up straight in my bed and then proceeded to fall flat on my face when i tried to get up. the noise woke up my grandmother, sending her into a liz calling contest with my mom.

i decided to go with nonnie first. being 93 and dangerously close to having strokes and panic attacks in the double digits slightly increases the risk factor. i explained that i fell, but that i was ok. she then commanded me to feed the cat and fill up the bird feeder.

stealthily slipping out of the room, i chuckled guiltily under my breath.

he bought me flowers. i wrote him poetry.

i hung them all upside down from the ceiling... creating a garden- dried out and falling from the sky of my bedroom. he checked it for grammatical errors.

the door cracked open and i stood staring at my mother, equipped with a devilish smile and bright red shiny spot on my forehead. i had forgotten about rug burn and how sexy it made me feel.

she was clearly not entertained, accusing me of laughing at her. i laid down on my father's side of the bed and ran my fingers through her sweaty hair. i found myself wondering if he had ever found himself in a similar situation, and growing sad with the realization that the chances of that were slim.

we got up and headed for the bathroom. i noticed a yellow stain on her nightgown where her incision was breathing deeply underneath. decided it would be better to wait until i was better oriented to try and tackle rebandaging.

the minutes were longer than usual. like they were almost savoring the draining effects father time was having over our hearts. he opened his eyes. bloodshot. tired.

empty.

he still wasn't looking at me. and just to prove that to himself, he pulled his hands up to his face and let them linger too long to be casual.

i drifted back to sleep slowly. finally listening to the sounds of the snores coming from their beds. 8am came way too quickly, though... and i found myself have a moment of dejavu at the sound of my mother's voice again.

but this time it was in the form of a question.

i wanted to pretend to still be asleep. so badly. because even though my body got up and continued throughout the day... i still was. i still am.

he saved me the trouble. i stood up to stretch my legs. walked towards the window. prepared myself to begin a conversation that niether of us wanted to have.

but i turned around... only to see the door closing behind him.

good night.