love letter, love letter...

I'm not going to start by telling you how I've never felt this way about anyone before oh how I can't live without you total eclipse of the heart 80's power ballad hooo.

I can live perfectly well without you, I did before I met you, and I know I will long after we eventually implode, as everyone with sense does eventually.

I will tell you that I love you, but the value of my words fluctuates daily. But when I woke up last night without you, I had to fight the hollow, sinking feeling that replaced you. Half of it was my body aching for your long, sweaty back pressed against mine, but the rest was the awful feeling I often get that I will replace your back with another back of a faceless, nameless drunken fuck.

I won't pen you songs of pink-eyed pigeons or jilted lovers, but I will realise at two seventeen a m on a wednesday morning that everytime, I will write you a valentine in blood.

Maybe one day you will ask me to marry you, and I will say yes through lack of anything else to say.

And then maybe one day after that we will move into that tiny apartment you know I have always wanted to live in, in that city I love to live in.

And maybe I will give you two wonderful children, a boy and a girl - each dark haired and hazel eyed. And we will love them and raise them perfectly and live beautifully until I die of lung cancer and your prostate turns against you.

Then maybe our children and their children in turn, will mourn us and hate us for fucking them up so much as all parents do.



But then again, probably not.

did you know

that some nights, I lie awake, enraptured in girlish, hot-lidded crush - just thinking about the brush of your black hair across my shoulder. Have you heard, all those familial miles away, my wordless, lust driven compulsion to imagine your coal ribbons melting in my bed.

I have watched your scabby, hangnailed nicotine finger flick the end of that same cigarette a hundred times, and each time I want nothing more than to put that same crackled digit in my warm, wet mouth. Then I could taste the hundreds of groupies - the endless taste of tight teenage girl.I would taste all your years of smack, each one held in bitter cellular memory. Every broken promise and every one yet to be made.

The way your bottom lip does that thing, you know the one I mean, won't let me forget you. I hope you are so very bored. The things I could give you, the things I would, sure must be more exciting than pushinf a double pram down the High Street or through B&Q on a sunday to buy coving for the newly redecorated front room.

Don't you want to come into my red room, with all its hazy light and hazier morals. Don't you want to live again, instead of the sterile existance you find yourself in now. Have you forgotten what its like? I wonder sometimes if you've just burned yourself out. Maybe you just don't have it in you anymore to smack yourself out of your head and spend three days fucking girls you could probably get arrested for fucking.

Maybe you are meant to be like you are now, and maybe I will finally realise that you are old older oldest, too old for me anyway.

Its a shame you can't see what you're missing out on.