thousand mile stare

Im staring at you from across the table. Not across, but diagonally. The fading edge of the Bronx is reflected in your eyes. You have the "thousand mile stare", apparently. That's what my father said about you. Addict's eyes. The funny thing is that I've begun to crave you, and the sins that I've tried to bury in hell rise like steam from the subway line, or water that's been boiling to make chamomile tea, yeah right, like dried leaves in hot water can make anyone feel less like shit. The sinister vapor comes up from the cracks in pavement into this little world of catholic education. Upstanding and all brick. Signs in green and white are so prim, regulations as an attempt to preserve the desperate image as a " fine LaSallian institution" are so blatant, but so was, I'm sure, the way that we fucked like rabbits in your room. I know that they could see it in the tousle of my hair, in your tired eyes. Do they know you're walking around with thousands of secrets, all those truths, the negatives to the positively thousands of lies you spew so readily from that boyish mouth? The mouth that I pressed my own to so many (too many) times. And now my addiction is solidified from every time we would lie on your sheets of innocent blue, now defiled by our actions, with the moon seeping through the slats of the cheap dorm blinds, plastically insipid and making a pattern on your named chest.