The Opposite of Whatever You Think Love Means



As we walk hand in hand it’s dark and we’re pissed and you’re my sweetness. There are no words tonight, only your hips and my drunkenness as the layers between us dissolve like tablets in a paper cup. Sharing a cigarette, we drink coffee and people watch while talking about the universe but as much as we talk, the universe exists only in our kiss, and so that’s all we concern ourselves with. Maybe I’ll be too drunk to fuck? I hope not, but if I am, I’ll run you a bath and shampoo your hair and when you’re done I’ll go down on you and make you come and take photographs as you lie there with tears streaming from your happy-and-far away eyes. Maybe I’ll kiss your armpits and clip your nails, or take out my favourite pen and sketch your hips and the way they swim in my whisky brain. Actually, that’s a lie. I don’t touch the stuff now. Plays havoc with my stomach. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. As ash falls to the ground by our feet and we look at each other and grin like loons, those around blur away until it’s just us and the cigarette that passes back and forth between our mouths. We are the ocean, and we are the night, and despite what they tell us, there’s no need for anything or anyone else.

A Journal Damned Lovers on

A Journal Damned Lovers on

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