abandoned body parts at the late night bus stop and perhaps I behave child-like and irrational. am I imagining it. you turn off my voice, cancel out the growing scream in my lungs. the approaching loneliness has been there all along and only hiding. a rope around sinking shoulders, heavily, I turn and melt into the background, disappearing slowly among the velvet furnishings.
robert mapplethorpe on a sunday night.
you drink straight from the bottle, like some bored teenager. the empty streets call you out and you paint the sky with wine and future love scenes, both blood red and magical, so when it rains she licks the walls and valleys of london for you to feel better, she gives in, gives away, picks it all off the floor like gleaming pearls or shells in the sand. like it’s nothing and a beautiful day.
steam leaks from the brick house rows in the morning haze and she sees these scenes above the rooftops. you know when tomorrow was just a blank screen and she didn’t narrate the story. life was new and cinematic and she never stopped to think or sleep.