curled and unwashed locks form unstraight lines that curve around temples and a neck's bottom touching earline. couldn't stand to look at it another night, so i trek to the abode of two japanese girls. she forced upon me rice with a black paste of cockroach wings, fish eyes, grasshoppers and bat wings while i fumbled feebly to manipulate sticks with exceptionally western hands. she was once sometimes cuddling companion while a boyfriend was leagues away in japan. i'd forgotten how much i missed her japanese pout.

i talked her into a haircut with unsharp scissors. the fee was to be the honest recounting of my personal life. her hands of asian splendor (small with the mystery of an orient) traced lines upon my skull. the blades of gleaming midnight metal fenced tiny particles of oncewasme that always lose and end upon the outside floor. she suspected me of 'eating girls' and i of course was not of accord. 'like cabbages' she said. she asked when the last time i kissed a girl was, and i replied with a cautious 'today.' she smiled her confusing confuscious smile and i felt like perhaps the reputation was correct. women and objects. i seperate love and sex. she doesn't understand. nor do i. once when love and sex were one and i was content, perfection seemed far from unattainable. she said that i'd forgotten how to love. i, unable to argue, but thinking that at least if it's only forgotten then perhaps i could recall.

she stood close to me and i heard her heart speak. it was neither japanese nor english. several well placed kisses upon her cheek left me wanting to take her home. if i could but lie between her literally translating hands, then i would feel less enormous and more secure. a kiss on her mouth? i'd just have more to juggle and still probably not be in love. how it would be nice, if i were in love with her. she's leaving for japan, while i set sail for france, but at least i'd feel something, if only loss...