When you suck the skin and leave a bruise, I lie there prone and defenceless. When the hours pass and I’m alone thinking only of you, shadows dance across the wall leaving me in a perpetual state of unrest. The fridge is empty, but I keep checking on the off chance I missed something. Same thing goes for the cupboards and pantry. There’s nothing there, just several tins of chickpeas and under no circumstances am I ever touching them. They remind me of that guy in Camus’ The Plague– the one who would stay in bed all day counting chickpeas of his own. I’m not quite at that stage just yet, but surely it won’t be long until boredom gets the better of me. So I walk around the house thinking of your smile and contemplating your breasts. From time to time I go into the garden and look up at the sky and close my eyes trying to listen out for some words from God but there are only sirens and birds and the banging of hammers from somewhere down the street. It rains shortly after, but I just stand there moving my head from side to side doing my best to connect with some higher power that might allow the visions to flow more freely next time I sit down and attempt to express myself. When you push yourself against me, I don’t wrap my arms around you like you want me to, and I’m not sure why. Is it because I’m unfeeling? Or is it that I’m scared of what I would do if you were to place your lips on mine and tell me what you feel inside? When we walk through town, you complain when I refuse to hold your hand, and just why is that? Is it down to my lack of emotion? Or is it that whenever we’re not together, I suspect that very hand is linked with another? Taking a shower, I abuse myself while biting my lower lip. Despite my doubts, it’s your body that dominates my thoughts. Against my best intentions, it’s you who still does this to me. As the water hits my face, I growl and sink to my knees. The fluid produced slips down the plug hole, but as for my silent rage, there is no such escape.