Prisms. Forests. Eyes of autumn and mouthfuls of air that pass from my mouth to yours. Scratches and handfuls of hair and bite marks that might or might not resemble the telltale signs of the stigmata. Looking at you as these thoughts dance through my mind, my tooth hurts, so I down several beers one after the other. I also have a cold, so hopefully, the beer will help with that, too. In the mirror, there’s a version of me that’s the same yet different. Trimming my scraggly beard, you finish washing your hair then stick your head out the window to help it dry. Going at it with a towel is just no good, you say, because it can be damaging, and that won’t do at all. Part of me wants to approach you from behind and slip my hand down your leggings and then into your panties. I want to make you wet, and then, I want to make you mine. But then there’s this other part of me that thinks about just pushing you out the window and saying it was a tragic accident. People will feel sorry for me, and I might get a book deal out of it, because hey, everyone loves a sob story. I’ll write about how much you meant to me, and how that when no one else is around, I talk to you beyond the grave and that you talk back. When you’re finished drying, you rest your head on my shoulder. Lifting your chin up with my nicotine-stained fingers, I chew on your lower lip and explore you a little. Maybe you like it, maybe you don’t, it’s difficult to tell. I’m growing more and more drunk, and you haven’t eaten since yesterday morning, so you’re not in the best frame of mind, and my judgement of your mood is less than perfect, even less so than usual, but despite the confusion, or perhaps because of it, we go ahead and lower ourselves. When you’ve collected yourself from our liaison and are looking out across town while I’m lying in bed a few hours later, you speak to me of what it means to be sincere, and what it means to be natural, two things I’ve never really known. When you stand there enchanted by the lights that shimmer on the horizon, I watch you in silence, not wanting anything other than to be in your presence. Because I’m your satellite, and this is what I do.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.com