Not Lovers



As we rise and climb higher than the stars we are celestial. Rushing through dead air we twist and scream and as I turn to face you, tears roll from the corners of your beaming eyes. Laughing so hard, your hair trails behind you like a magic carpet or a blanket caught in a storm or the vines of a tree bursting through a sheet of ice that covers a lake where the bodies of our ex lovers rest far beneath the surface. It’s cold. Maybe Thursday, but it could be Tuesday. Flying above the town we both love and loathe in the same breath we observe the lights that shimmer under our feet with childish fascination. Minutes before, when we were eating hotdogs and pushing through the crowd, I stated my hatred of success, and that for as long as I lived I wanted to be considered a failure and nothing more. Smiling at me as I ranted while rolling a cigarette, I went on to declare how I didn’t consider myself to be a lover, and that the very term made me feel ill, and that for as long as we were together we wouldn’t talk about love but instead hate, and that we would never make love but instead fuck and that I wasn’t your baby and nor were you mine. I stated that I was a bad machine and that by sleeping with me you were now just as defected. Romance is dead, I cried, and society a hive for deadened insects and the life pursuit of money and social acceptance worse than murder and punishable by being boiled alive or hung from the neck from the lamposts of Leicester Square. When I finished, I smoked my cigarette and complained about how cold my ears were. Taking me by the hand, you said you agreed with everything I had to say and that until the day came when you couldn’t stand me any longer and plunged the knife deep into my heart while I slept, we would be against the rest. And so we walked and talked and ate candy floss and climbed to the stars and when those tears clung to your cheeks I reached out and traced their path across your flesh and even though I was terrified of the carriage derailing causing us to plummet fifty feet to our certain deaths the sounds of joy escaping your chest made me feel more alive than I dared imagine. To think of all those days before I knew you- to consider those years when we existed in different bubbles and then we came into contact and our bubbles merged and in that instant the outside world lost its meaning. As you screamed at the darkness above all I could do was look at you knowing words would never come close to capturing the sensations rushing through our veins and yet it didn’t matter, it didn’t matter at all.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

12 replies »

  1. This is bursting with anarchistic energy, beautiful nihilistic language in matters of love…or in this case we will tone it done to lust. πŸ™‚

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