Starless so starless. Wild and thunderous. Those thighs. Those hips. Those bodies that ignite like the pages of a newspaper that drift around the streets of your hometown with no direction in mind until they spark beneath the glare of the sun. Dreams of plucked teeth and fantasies involving brown eyes and apple-like lips while flicking through old pornos. It’s casual. It’s formulaic. There’s conflict, but it never means that much. There are trysts between would-be lovers that look good from the outside but have as much substance within as a puddle on the sidewalk. In between this. In between that. Smiles and fucks. Unions and severed alliances. Words and no words and false words and shiny words and broken jaws in a McDonald’s on a Friday night from the merging of two gangs sharing the same stories yet different ways of seeing. Bare feet and swollen ankles. The tips of searching fingers and the scent of freshly washed bedsheets that still hold your memory after so many years. Passages of thought followed by long periods of silence. The here and there and the dissolution of what we once were and even longer stretches of time that mark the transition from a mere bystander to the conjurer of visions. Oceans. Castles. Fragments of you and fragments of me that loiter in greasy spoons that should’ve been condemned years ago. Y’know, the ones where the walls are stained a dirty shade of orange and rat shit collects in the corners of the room like a good luck charm. Helicopters and the magic of childhood in your somehow still youthful eyes. The stink of my cigarette that wraps itself around your waist like a pair of arms but I’m too tired to give you my love tonight so give me a break, OK. Is God real? Is he organic or just a machine? Is he still with us or just dust, long dead and haunting some other universe we will never get to see? Do you touch yourself thinking only of me, or is there some other that does it better?

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

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