As she swirls in circles, I eat fried chicken while trying to figure out the pagan alphabet. She wants me to scrawl certain words onto her torso- words of my choosing she’ll one day turn into tattoos. In four billion years, The Milky Way will merge with the Andromeda galaxy. It’ll be a wonderful sight I’m sure, and yet my eyes will be long gone. Dried, hollow and dead. They’ll be nothing left of me nor anyone else. Not Shakespear. Not Jesus. Not even Bukowski. We all become dust- we all come undone. There were so many years when I thought I was God, but it seems that I’m not. There were so many days when it felt as if I were in control of all things. There were so many times you told me you loved me and yet it means nothing at all. This whole thing- the games we play- how stupid it all seems in the cold light of day. We eat sushi. We kiss beneath bridges as trains rattle overhead. Bodies. Coffee pots. Haunted lovers that can never shed enough skin to move on. Hands that caress faces that keep slipping no matter how hard we try saving them from fading away.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

4 replies »

  1. ain’t this the fuckin truth. all those ghosts just collect in your marrow & make it impossible to ever -shed- enough. you’d be a sinewy avatar of loss & the flayed outlaw of That Which Must Not Be Named (love. hissssss.) i don’t think this made sense. i’ve probably been drinking.

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