Obstacles

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The town and city that blur with each footstep. The lighthouse that connects us even though we don’t speak. The numbing sensations we receive that lift us up while we sink beneath waves of depression no one knows how to confront. The dry wind, it scratches my face; it lifts water up from the ocean and splashes my too-pale skin as those around me do their best to shield their portions of newspaper-wrapped chips from greedy seagulls. Urinating in a phone booth later on in the evening while everyone else rushes invisible waves that crash against the decaying beams of the pier, I look at all the calling cards plastered over the fractured windowpanes and bite my tongue. All those women- those wombs that call to me in a language similar to the one I tried in vain to paint all those years ago- they still whisper my name even though it’s been so long. They still tease me even though it shouldn’t mean anything at all. Shaking the last drops of piss from my cock, the droplets of rain slither this way and that down the glass, and as I stand there shivering, each empty street after the other is a grave to every dream I ever dreamt in my stupid head, just as each sphere of liquid is a face I’ll never see again. It could be the eyes of a stranger. Could be the mouth of an ex-lover, the same ex-lover who swallowed me until I came and then demanded my tongue in return. Dutifully responding, it once meant something, but not now. None of it means anything at all. Lighting a cigarette as a vehicle passes by, I remember the taste of your lips and how my hands would always gravitate to your hips as we kissed, but the memory of our chemistry leaves me cold. Head down as the wind batters my aching and drunken frame, I wish so much to send you a message; to write brilliant prose declaring my love, but those days are gone, and the girl I’m in love with doesn’t exist- that version of you isn’t there anymore.

7 replies »

  1. Countless letters and texts are written by the collective forgotten lovers. Whether it’s courage or stupidity that allows us to send them is unknown. Safe in our sorrow, we pretend it doesn’t matter. I wonder if it does though? I loved this. I always admire your transparency. Beautiful.

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