Meet Me at the Cemetery Gates



Cold mornings of bus journeys and sandwiches bought from Sainsbury’s. I wanted chicken, but they only had cheese and onion. Don’t like cheese and onion. She bought us one each as I waited outside smoking a cigarette even though it was too cold and I was hungover. When she handed it to me, I told her to keep it. She apologised and said she’d get me something else but I pulled her close and kissed her forehead before telling her not to worry. The trees are dying, as are we. I should see romance, but it feels as though we’re living in the last town around. The cemeteries and the gravestones within- how they whisper to us so perversely. They know it won’t be long until we’re buried like the rest of them. In the darkness, I shine a light on her sex. Kissing it with broken lips, she grabs my hair until tears form in the corners of my eyes. Light a candle. Say a prayer. There’s beer, wine, whisky, shots of Sambuca, and pills that take us to the moons of Mars. Uneven teeth. Lopsided breasts. And those throats- those memories of what it means to be alive- I remember them from time to time when I’m not busy chewing my tail. Oak trees. Conkers. Woodlice. Cheese on toast while watching shit B-Movies as the town burns on our doorstep. Do you remember when we first met? Can you recall those days when we stood outside in the pouring rain and laughed at what we saw? Failed lovers. Drinkers. Daydreamers. The holy trilogy that never fails to disappoint. I mean, whoever clings to normal? What kind of person would ever dedicate their lives to being a member of the good ol’ regular show? Spending days on end in bed, I lie there not thinking, just breathing. I’m not happy, and I’m not sad, either. I’m not much of anything. I exist in the best state I can, nothing else. Premonitions. Teardrops. The colour of a smile. Teenage bloodlust. Teenage despair. Hips. Mouths. The urge to kiss, and the desire to be kissed by someone who feels the same way. 100 and seven billion souls. One hundred thousand that fall each and every day. And yet somehow, it’s always a surprise. Somehow, the end has a way of shaking our bones even though it’s the only thing we’re ever guaranteed.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

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