Sometime today, a jet crashed onto a motorway killing several people, yet all I can do is wonder what she looks like with no clothes on. Plunging from the sky and exploding into a ball of fire, those driving were snuffed out in a mess of flames and crunched steel. Plumes of smoke as silent spectators looked on; my attention, however, was drawn to the outline of her bra beneath that useless top of hers. It’s on the news, and it makes me feel sad, yet there’s nothing I can do about it. Worrying won’t bring back the dead, so I give them my love and concentrate on that hidden landscape she’s keeping all to herself. Those areola’s of hers, just the thought of them intrigues me. Big and juicy, or something a little more tasteful perhaps? Death comes in the time it takes to think of the smile of a loved one. It catches us before we even have the chance to kiss their lips goodbye. Sadness swallows, and so does existence. Nowhere safe except for the arms of the one you keep locked inside. The humid weather brings spiders into the house. It forces me to strip naked out of exhaustion. Contemplating masturbation, the sounds of drunken party people drift through my window. Picturing the women and their lack of charm, I read instead. A little Palahniuk, and a touch of Bukowski. There’s warm beer waiting to be had, and maybe then the image of her legs adorned in a short skirt will bring me back to life. English summer days colliding like memories of endless alleyways and the scent of freshly washed hair. It’s in the blood blisters on my toes, and how even though she’s a wilting flower, she still makes me itch. Hand prints on newly painted walls in the throes of a game of give and take. A cigarette to signal the beginning of the end. Flashing lights that stimulate chemical memory. All the lovers and their startled faces as in the blink of an eye they reached heaven.