She lies upon the duvet like an island with the half-open window letting in a breeze that blows the curls of her hair. Outside, there’s a man who shuffles to and from town at the same time every day. He looks like a stroke victim; his left arm lifeless, and the side of his face frozen in a state of perpetual anguish. I want to reach out and talk to him, to let him know that he’s not alone- that someone cares despite how shitty things are. But nothing will be done, because actions are harder than words, and always will be. Besides which, I’m naked, and my cock is still half-erect after lovemaking. Watching the old man disappear from view, I sit down on the windowsill and light a cigarette. Eyeing up her body, she has a small mouth. It’s my favourite part of her, if I had to choose, that is. Gone to the world, she exists in a place I’ll never have control of, and despite my best efforts to invade her spiritual retreat, it’s a useless act. The same goes for whenever she opens her legs. With all I can muster, I’m trying hard to punish her for being so beautiful, but she wins each and every time, because, without her, there’s nothing to me save for riddles and neurosis. Moving over to the bed, she snores ever so lightly while clutching her pillow. If I were good enough with a pencil, I’d capture her essence in a drawing, but alas I’m not, so all I can do is grab my phone from the floor and take a photo. It will be something to look at during the middle of an argument to remind myself that she’s not always a bitch, or perhaps used as a weak blackmailing tool. For now, her beauty is captivating, and as my fingers run through her hair, I plead with whoever’s up there not to let her come to any harm.