Time flies, I barely remember a thing. How long has it been? He checks his watch, three hours, maybe four, maybe a lifetime. It’s a bit weird, like a half eaten bowl of green grapes, firm, round, earthy, the little stubs where grapes should, and used, to be, sticking up and out like the inside of your lungs. It’s all a bit weird.
Tell me something, she says, lips moving, plump, rosy, smeared with red, blood filling in the crinkles, lipstick. The deteriorating sweetness of her skin, he tastes the bitter perfume, hovering just above her face he watches her speak, the formation of her words, the rise and fall of her chest beneath his, raw, smooth and dead. A streak of amber in the darkness, her wrists pinned above her head, his fingers wrapped around them like rope in a discombobulated knot. Light from the hallway interrupts the bed sheets, pierces the partition in her hair, the valley between her breasts, the hairs running down her left thigh. His fringes tickle her face, his breath mingling with hers in a twisted ritual ceremony, a beat in the musky air of the room, reverberating from wall to wall. A fire in her eyes burns past him, a desire, a lust, for the corrosive acid of his response. His hips straddle her waist, she’s strangely submissive. One last look, one last breath and he takes her, drinking the blood from her lips, the wetness of her mouth, her tongue, her soft ovals crushed against his broad chest, bare and firm. She moans a little, he edges in closer, feeling, searching for her little heart, exposed, open, drawing closer to the flame, anticipating the pain.
Did you ever love me?
12:25 AM
I’m just a little bit pathetic, aren’t I?
Yeah, it’s a bit crazy, just like that. I can still hear it, the soft, melodious sound of his voice. Words, words I have none and never will.
I think I’m in love with you. It might’ve just all started out as some sick joke I played on myself, but at some point, some random point, I might’ve actually fallen in love with you. Will you take me seriously if I tell you? Judging from that personality of yours (you’re such a jerk sometimes, thought I should tell you), you’ll probably just laugh at me. Or, maybe, seeing how you do this a lot, raise an eyebrow and squint at me, and, even more probable, you’ll think that I’m lying. I might be. I honestly might be lying, to you (if I ever told you), to myself (I do so everyday) about being in love with you. But sometimes, I can’t help it. Your smile, that unfortunate smile of yours, is permanently engraved in my mind, with a damn blowtorch. And it’s not going away. I see it, a lot, in my head, I play back seconds, seconds of time we spent together, seconds, seconds in a day, over and over and over in my head, to make the time seem longer. Is that cheesy? Was that bit, that whole bit, two or three lines long bit, a little too cheesy? I thought so, too. It’s all just horrible, it’s horrible, you’re horrible, and I’m just a fat piece of lard, sitting here, confessing my love to moveable type, computer screen and Microsoft word.
I love you. Hear me. Listen to me. Please don’t laugh at me.