Enola

Sunflowers and Poltergeists. Bad writing and kisses beneath bedsheets soaked with lighter fluid. The minute we spark our cigarettes, we go up in flames like the victims of a car bombing someplace in Nigeria. I’ve seen the pictures; flesh melted to the bone + bodies stiff with teeth jutting out of dead gums with entrails burned black like sausages. Walking back from work, the buildings that surround me crumble to dust. In a period of time I have no comprehension of, the rubble that’s left will be obliterated and all traces of us will be no more. These words of mine- they will be gone, and it will be as if they never even existed. The love and passion that bubbles out of sight- fading like the subtle scent of Jasmine in the breeze, or the smile of a lover reminiscing over a photograph that will one day vanish like everything else. Sometimes, when I walk the pavement in the darkly hours, I think of her face and wish only to return to her arms. With all I have, I want to capture her beauty in a painting, but my painting days are over, just like she. Gone. Gone. Gone. But energy can’t be destroyed, it can only change form, and so what has been will be once more. Just like the seasons, and just like a storm. Even when it’s over and we’re long since departed, we will rise and rage again. In a room the colour of loss, and in between the legs of a woman with a belly full of insects and a mouthful of seed- we will be everywhere. Drinking black coffee, I walk around in circles spitting blood in a paper towel. Scratching my beard with fingernails untrimmed for over a month, the days escape me even though I try so hard to keep them safe. Unable to sleep, a marching band do their thing in the room below, only when I go to kick them out, they’ve already gone, gone, gone. What can I do but lose? What can I do but become that which I’ve tried so hard to resist?

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