Have a beer, a smoke too. Take a piss, and feel like a king. Remember the way she used to give herself to you. No shame, only physicality. Hips of a goddess, and breasts that mirrored the shape of my hands just right. Waking up next to her in the morning, I’d always slip one under her shirt and caress her with my aching fingers. She’d moan, and that would lead to only one thing. Morning sunshine, dissolving lovers. As natural as the stars in the sky, and the wind blowing through autumn trees. Leaves falling outside the window as we lay there exhausted, kisses would be exchanged in mutual silence. Flowers blooming, milk and honey. Eyes, brown and blue. Life stirring, but not for us. Burying her face into my chest, I’d take her in my arms and sniff the hair that would tickle my nose. It was always good, and the breeze that crept over our naked bodies was nothing short of poetry. Sheer, glorious, poetry.

These are now memories, in catacombs waiting to see the light of day once more. Somewhere, these moments exist. Our love, exists. But for now, there’s nothing but a labyrinth. Minotaurs and fountains. The hidden realms of passion, scattered over green fields where roses sway in the breeze. Red roses. The kind that remind you of her lips. Spreading muscles. I was always the magician with her. Pleasure zones and romance were my speciality. Despite being a bastard child and writer, I always knew how to treat a girl. Only not when the abyss swallowed me up. It was just too difficult. All those crumple zones, and the way things would get the better of me. Inertia, creeping like evening shadows at twilight. Tornados and migraines. Puking up to the chimes of a grandfather clock. Tick tock, tick tock. But she was with me always, her warm embrace. The scent of her neck. Heat. Brilliant heat, turning me on like some kind of devil as the larks sang in unison. And they sang for her, and the truth of her heart. Always burning, with a truth so, true.

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