She had convinced herself

there were better men to suit her

moth like temperament.

More appropriate for her vibrancy

and wit.

Over several days she had grown

weary

of the click of his belt buckle,

how his teeth tore rabidly

at his fingernail skin

and his tendency to belittle her

visions of the future.

Visions already planned and

produced, projected onto pale, dying

white walls.

She wished and wished.

Wished a switch into existence,

one which tripped the lights,

blew the bulbs –

plastic shattered shards

thrown into disarray,

and restarted her heart.

She was convinced there was a man

made for her fiery pits

and emotional debt.

Made to touch her

once,

twice

and soothe her woe.

Woe which spirals like a wind chime

in a hurricane;

she twists, contorts until paralysed

beneath the bedsheets.

Heavy as lead,

left for several hours or days

in flux

where love is fleeting,

physical and animalistic.

She’s convincing him.

Body and soul

to hold her but keep her

in his sheets,

clothes,

collections

and thoughts.

To be absorbed in love,

in lust and sorrow.

To bare teeth

at the belly of the beast,

squint into the barrel of the gun

and smile.

Death

and it’s welcoming arms

only settles on lovers

like you and her,

it cannot consume

what has already been consumed.

She promised to savour you,

by her molars and cheeks.

She promised not to spit you

back into the storm.

The storm which brewed

the very beings who find themselves

locked as one

beneath the Milky Way.

 

 

Photographer: Alexandr Ivanov

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