Fallen Angel



Falling asleep in the back of her car, the sky trembles and moans like a rapist being beaten to death on the streets of Cambodia. Picturing all kinds of perversion while struggling to keep an eye out for strangers, she presses her body against mine and pulls the blanket up so she’s completely covered. For a few minutes, she attempts to stroke me off but gives in to her exhaustion. Running my fingers through her hair, I watch as droplets of rain begin sliding down the window. Within a few minutes, it sounds like a million tiny bombs exploding on the roof as a storm drowns the town until morning. She smells like afternoons spent drinking in beer gardens during long stretches of summer. Cigarettes. Lager. Shots. Things that are bad for you yet taste so nice while looking up at the heavens as they drift for an eternity never saying a word in return. With each breath she takes oblivious to everything but her dreams, the warmth she provides prevents me from having to turn on the fan. Opening a bottle of wine, my belly appreciates the gesture as the Australian Chardonnay slides down with ease. Somewhere out there among all the dead streets and parking lots, there are night creatures just like us that lurk in the shadows. In buildings that echo lost love, there are shapes that wrap themselves around the broken one’s who are waiting to transform into something beyond our understanding. Closing my eyes after drinking some more wine, I see them as they used to be, so innocent and sincere and unaware of how the future would betray their hopes so cruelly. Picturing an ex-lover running in slow motion through a field of barely, she divides into shards of glass that reflect the light of the sun in a billion shades yellow. Infinite in number, the shards hang suspended in thin air as a young girl stands alone at the end of a pier. Gazing out to sea, she’s hypnotised by the waves and ready to leap towards them when my lover calls out her name. Still asleep, I pull back the blanket and see the beads of sweat trickling down her forehead. Cradling her in my arms, the two of us drift out of existence as if we were never here to begin with. In a place where flowers bend under the weight of grotesque bees, we laugh while chasing each other to the sounds of a heavenly orchestra- but such an event can not be described until another day.

4 replies »

    • Thank you, that’s very kind of you. Regarding the decision to not use new paragraphs, I think it’s because I see each piece I write as a bubble. A fleeting glimpse into someone’s inner thoughts in a world that’s so chaotic not to mention destructive. I want them to be little spheres of reflection that exist for a few seconds before bursting.

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