There’s blood on the bedsheets, it’s hers, not mine. There’s smoke in the air or it could be fog rolling in off the sea not sure don’t care. She morphs she comes. When I shoot she shivers and goes limp so I carry her to the bath and wash her until she smiles and kisses my hand. There are cigarettes, then after she’s dried and warm, ice cream, too. I feed it to her as those eyes of hers flicker like the blinds that cover the window where the breeze gets in. There’s blood, it’s mine. We drink too much, it’s an issue, I know. Me to write and her to numb. Every so often we pop out to restaurants. We walk until it’s time to head back and then we play computer games, but most of the time we hold each other not doing anything at all and it’s beautiful because nothing else matters and why should it? There’s a single bead of sweat on my nose and she licks it off. She’s a swan- she’s a tree. Yeah, she’s many things, she’s at one with everything.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

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