The lamp is fuming.
The knife chops off the whiteness. Her violent hand.
Her rigorousness moves so fast. Call the saints.
They lie together, arm in arm.
They could die together and perish any moment now.
And they love each other, but don’t know it yet.
They both lie, unrecognised, the vapours rising.
Smoke, a constant theme in their lives.
Creator, defeating us all in our little sanctuaries.
She is holding on to him, so tightly, so hopelessly.
She is scared on her own.
Look at her feet, she stands alone.
And so does he, they can’t find each other amongst the clouds.
Chiselled apart, their bodies calling for blankets.
Who is going to lie with her?
It takes so much work and patience to convince her she’s worth it.
The heads all land in the compost.
A most familiar smell.
She perceives the blade on her neck.
The cold whiff it leaves behind.
It’s the family’s axe cutting asunder what belongs together.
The bowl of perfection covered in gnashing sugar.
A taste in everybody’s mouth, swallowed in a moment.
The bodies turn to mousse, losing their substance.
Who believed in her?
Is it him burning in the flames? Is it him lingering in an urn on a commode?
Watching her disintegrate amongst memories.
Misguided. She dreams of who she can be the next day.
Whilst the blanket’s on fire.
She dreams in a fetal position.
The old hands are preparing the celebratory dish.