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.
This has great rhythm and imagery.
Favourite line: “Woe which spirals like a wind chime
in a hurricane;”
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Thank you very much.
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