Asphalt crumbs

Standing in her bedroom, he looked up at the moon and stood still in its hostile glare. The jury reached a verdict, and judgement came down on him like torrential rainfall. In the freezing cold, lava began spreading through his veins, as a menacing defiance shot out of his eyes. Stripping the condom from his body, the marauder trembled in his decadence.

I will fill your disappointment in me into bottles, one thousand glass bottles, and cracking them open, feeling it sliver down my mutilated throat, will refresh me. Will confirm me.

Licking his lips, he felt the splinters on his tongue. Asphalt crumbs. They carried her taste, and he sucked them dry, before spitting them out.

You have misconceived me. Stirred up an image that fits your profile. And I will continue to break away the ground underneath your feet, false lover.

He broke the gaze and his look feel on a murder of crows, huddling together on a tree branch across the parking lot. Like a mother looking down on her child crying and snivelling from the pain, they rested in their apathy for an eternity, before spreading their wings and leaving him be.

I welcomed the mayhem, and it wrecks all you hold dear in me.

Where was his shirt? His glasses? His underwear? Knuckles cracking, he propelled his limbs to manoeuvre through the room. He stumbled upon his socks at the bottom of the shelf.

I left you a mark in every corner of every room, bleeding out from all my wounds every single goddamn night, and moving my fingers through the puddles to read your name. And I swallowed what you gave me, because I knew you would like me then.

Getting dressed was a performance, a slow parade building up to the gruelling crawl under the covers. But he had shoved the clean, little boy he puts on display from nine to five into the cupboard, tying the door tight with ropes from long ago, and he relished being himself; like a swan rising out of the water and fluttering its wings.

I was never here to be happy. Nobody is. We are here to TRY to be happy. To strive, to ache, to fall, to quiver, and to stubbornly press onwards, until we resign into our uselessness. You say you are happy now? I say: “Give it time.”

He cramped everything into his bag, his coat under his arm, and made for the door, when a naked body blocked his exit. Clean escape foiled. She bared his fangs, and snarled under her breath, as she moved swiftly forward, clutching his hip. She dictated the kiss, and her violence tasted saccharine.

You don’t know me. You don’t want me. But I am here, and I am convenient.

She whispers: “This was very nice.”

You don’t need me.

She laughs: “I cannot believe I am doing this with you.”

I wish you were someone else.

Eyes meet. Lips touch.

She says: “So, you’re gonna go, huh?”

I don’t want to be alone.

“Because, uh, we could just stay here. For a while, I mean.”

I am so alone with you.

“And, hey, we still have…uhhh…three-quarters of a whisky bottle left over.”

The romantic notion behind the connection of neurons is deeply undervalued. As a bolt of lightning came down from the sky in front of his eyes, straight into her neck, erasing all that is wrong in his world, he felt his fingers trembling.

Reaching out for the bottle in her hand, he took a bit out of his lower lip and stared past her face, into the void.

We are fizzling out. You must know that.

He got lost in the release as the whisky set his chest on fire, and did not resist as she unbuckled his belt.

Bildergebnis für crows moon

Art by Bill Cannon

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