Into the Night



Strands of hair. Women. Bleeding gums. Lost satellites that keep drifting further into the unknown reaches of the universe. Is it still Sunday in the mouth of a wormhole? Does love still exist on the event horizon of a black hole? When you curl into a ball and wish your life away, do you yearn for no tomorrows or just for no more you? Is there even a difference? At the end of time when no trace of you remains, will it make you happy to know that you were right? Cigarettes. Car crashes. Genocide and nursery rhymes recited without irony. Physicality under a blanket of burning skies. We are chained to someone else’s ideology- we are prisoners and puppets without even caring. Journeys to the city. Journeys to the sea. Footsteps washed away by the rain. But what of those days when we shone? Are we now ghosts? Are we haunted by all that we left behind? Do we even care? Those strands of hair- those eyelashes that rest upon your cheek. The minutes that turn to hours and the hours that turn to years as you walk the harbour not knowing what comes next except for a future that won’t know you. No trees, and no burning hearts, only rust and decay and bones and the yellowed pages of a book covered in dust. Do you know you’re still alive? Do you drift or do you make a stand even though without question you’ll be crushed? Is it better to be silent or to spark like a match even though it will be over before it begins? Women. Wombs. Photographs of buildings. Images of all that will never be slipped into your pocket as you walk into the ocean on your way back home.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

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