Macabre

Depth of matter

It doesn’t matter does it?

If my feet are tired and I can no longer dance

It couldn’t matter, could it?

That we no longer waltz together on the moors whilst the moon yawns down upon us

It wouldn’t matter, would it?

If my bones are pressed deep into the dirt at the foot of your bed, cold and damp in August

It shouldn’t matter, should it?

That we lost our souls that day the rain came, when we buried each other up to our necks in lust

It didn’t matter, did it?

It never did

My Cold Hearted Boyfriend

He lies beside me at night
As I write the words which sustain me
The noises he makes sometimes distracting
Causing me to look up from my work
Or my useless crap
(as he liked to call it)

Sometimes I move too sudden
And he presses his damp skin on mine
Forcing me to give him a push
To keep him at bay
A little love shove

Then I can carry on
Typing up my masterpiece
Immune to his judgemental silence
And vacant stare

Once I had writers block
Asked for help
Inspiration
Yet he only wanted to sleep
His raspy breath on my arm
Echoes of snuffling and snoring
Reverberating in my ears
Forcing my words to hide
My eyelid to twitch
My knuckles to crack

He doesn’t snore anymore
Though he still lingers
Like a bad smell

Inspired for Darkside Thursday