Plague Lover



Waking with a hangover, I fill the sink with cold water and plunge my head beneath the surface while she observes her body in a mirror smeared with handprints left over from last night’s act. What year is this? I really can’t remember. Seriously, what year is this? I try asking her, but my words fall upon deaf ears. Wrapped in a dressing gown that smells of her sex, the day breaks like any other, but things feel on edge, and every time I go to her, she evades my embrace. It puts me in a mood, but so does everything, and so what is there to do but venture out into town to get some fresh air in the hope of improving my fragile state of mind. But there are too many people, and the wind messes up my hair which fills me with a deep sense of melancholy that worsens with every step. Not even food in a greasy spoon raises my spirits, and after walking for the best part of two hours, I return to find her clipping her toenails while sat perched on the edge of the bed. She’s been eating toast, and there are crumbs everywhere. It makes me angry, so much so that it’s difficult to contain my rage. Sitting down next to her and sliding my hand up her top, I grab her left tit and squeeze, but she doesn’t react. Nothing whatsoever. Digging my nails into her flesh, she winces and looks me right in the eye, but again there’s no recognition. Touching her lips as she leans back and looks at the ceiling, her beauty makes me tremble, but no matter what I do, she’s so far away.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

11 replies »

  1. That, must be so frustrating. Do you Really get angry? Just a question. Not trying to come over as a psychoanalyst. Lol

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