Music Makers



The glow of angel eyes and the scent of lemon drizzle cake that reminds me of her mum’s old place. A car ride to a strange town that still contains her ghost and where the air tastes like the strip of flesh behind her left ear, the area I rest my nose against while we slip between the layers night after night in search of the great beyond. Mood swings brought on by living, and lapses in faith that come with the territory of skirting the edge of reason in pursuit of that which eludes us during our waking hours. A shared cigarette. A kiss from her mouth that tastes of leaves and wet stones. The war cry of a gathering of cats somewhere outside as they stand on their hind legs preparing for battle. While they circle and pounce, I place my hand between her legs and touch everything that ever was. She stirs. She growls. She scratches as if possessed by one of the warring cats. Wrapping herself around me, flesh gives way to nothingness, and when we are nothing, we are free. Until that is I lose control and shoot my load which makes her bite my hands as hard as she can causing me to plead with her to stop. The great release. The great distraction. When she curls into a ball resting the soles of her feet against my thighs, I stare at the back of her head and think about all the places I’ve been in my life. Do they remember me? Do those moments still exist, somehow? Where once there was life and love, there now exists empty paint cans and crisp packets that float in rivers for years upon years without anyone ever knowing. In the stillness of the night, I gaze at the space between her shoulder blades and see snowfall and frozen lakes and the image of her tracing my initials into the ice that covers the windscreen of some lone car parked by the side of the road. The music of that evening still sings to me. It still reaches out and caresses my face even after so long.

A Journal for Damned Lovers Volumes 1 & 2 on

A Journal for Damned Lovers Volumes 1 & 2 on

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