Supermarkets. Cafes. Camden. London Zoo. The hum of her uterus and the undeniable song it sings to me when I’m sleeping. Warehouses. Garden centres. Corner shops opposite the petrol station that sells those energy drinks that taste like the breastmilk of a Greek goddess. There’s a telephone booth I stand within to light my cigarette. I’ve been here before, but now I’m all alone. My lover has long since left me. Which one? All of them. I gave them a quarter of my heart and a few pipe dreams involving scattered words, and yet it wasn’t enough. Who would’ve known? Yeah, exactly. They keep dropping bombs on Aleppo. They keep finding more and more planets that can sustain life, yet they’re all so far away. Do you believe in portals? Do you believe that what once was will be again? Her long, spider-like legs and the death star that resides between them. The greasy spoon we would spend a few hours in before collecting our dole money. Sausages, eggs, bacon and beans. Two teas with two sugars and milk. Can’t remember what she had. Probably the same. We would watch the traffic go past outside while reading newspapers, and then when we were done, we’d feed the ducks and talk about everything other than what we meant to say, and now such days are far behind us. To think of all those who have gone before, and to those that will follow. And what about the ones on the brink right now? We keep on slipping- we keep drifting despite our best attempts at sticking around and although it’s not fair it’s just how it is. Life is not an 80’s New York romcom. It’s not Ghostbusters 2, either, but it should be. It should be an evening of booze and freeways and cinemas and time-travel and hips and knees and little toes that wiggle as the bed becomes a magic carpet and we fly wherever we want. Maybe we’ll go to Wyoming? Or perhaps Salt Lake City? Or the blue star I once saw shining in her parents garden that time not long before the great fall?

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

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