The window opens and I call out your name. Perhaps it will reach you. Perhaps it won’t. Pouring another glass of wine, I step into the garden and smile as droplets of rain fall slowly then quickly before splashing onto my face. A shielded cigarette summons a swirling head, and a swirling head opens many doors, and the visions are soon in full flow. Ain’t it strange to contemplate these footsteps. Ain’t it a funny ol’ thing to ponder the meaning of love and loss at 3am while drunk and on the brink of personal revelation. In another life, in some other town or city, I would fall apart and cry, but here, right now, I can’t help but laugh. There’s a shitload of regret in my heart, and even though I try to deny it, it weighs me down so much, but still there’s this laughter. It rings out the same as the echo of your name. And just like that the rain shifts as do the clouds and here comes the moon so big and blue and heavy against the darkness beyond. There are memories of you I hold close. There are scents I’ve stored that make you mine without you even knowing. What a creep. Jean-Baptiste Grenouille would be proud of me for sure. Maybe one day I’ll live in a mountain just like him and have the entire universe within the confines of my skull. What a thrill that would be. Removed, withdrawn. Solipsism forever.

There’s this love in me I know can’t be wrong, and even when this lonely ride digs its claws in, the sight of all those doors reminds me there’s no other ride I’d wish to take. Years come and go. The seasons pass in a blur. People die and wars never end. Youth worships youth only to be spat out like a mouthful of cum once time takes its toll and so the circle begins again as if we were permanent and not temporary like the rotting vegetables we are. Little humans. Little humans as transitory gods so bland and lacking in anything other than myth. To be here is both a curse and a gift. To be among the dead is damning for my weakling soul, and yet this soul of mine still shines, and it’s worth fighting for. Those around me trade theirs in as if they were of little value. They pass them around the same as they would old magazines and computer games. And their love, their love is second-hand. It means as little as porno kisses. It’s as used and as empty as the drunken promises they make to strangers on nights out in town doing their best to forget the drab nature of their samey, insignificant lives. Their love is a white flag. Nothing more, always less. But hey, that’s their problem, not mine. Toasting the sky, I revel in what I am, and what I am is what you’re told to never be. It’s a lonely ride alright, but it’s the only ride worth taking.

A Journal for Damned Lovers Volumes 1 & 2 on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers Volumes 1 & 2 on Amazon.com