#215 We Cling

by Jacob Moss

They’re yet to create a mirror that sends back yourself. It’s always somebody else gawking back, wantin’ out of there. I wonder how she sees me. In this moment. Her eyes I feel, peeling paint off my face. I can’t see her; just the afterlife of love. But we still cling; like a headless chook runnin’ about, we cling.

Our haunches play the part while everything else fears the gallows. With the power of a colt’s gallop, we barrel across the marshes.

Something’s burnin’ inside. My nose is smokin’; my eyes are given in. She’s burying teeth into my chest; looking to bite out the life in it beating like bare feet on oil drums. Before love dies, it flashes before your eyes.

The room smells of fungus, but it’s being pushed out through the cracks; our breath, tears flood the room like water. She has a space to be filled; this is all I can give. A prick is all a man can offer a woman.

A piano is playin’ somewhere; volume risin’. “Rain on me,” panting, “Rain on me you bastard!” She hears the music too and sinks her nails, teeth. A tin kettle is boiling over; a church choir rises and sings. A gust of wind blows up the curtains skirt. We close our eyes tight like children.

Roosters crow; street lamp’s flicker; flocks of birds take off...

I roll off her. Lying there, sprawled. Left with nothin’. Nothin’ but the reflection of ourselves in the mirror.

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