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. 

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