# 4

I liked to admire her arm. Her arm was slender towards the wrist yet nicely full towards the forearm. Little blue veins were visible at the inner wrist, a royal blue to contrast the delicate whitness of her skin. She held up her arm for me time and time again and then hid it when she became tired or self-conscious.

Further and Further Away II

He loved the way each moment gave way to the next one. There, that was a lie, it was fucking shite most of the time, he hated it. It was awkward and he fucking hated it. I'm talking about life. His experience of existing, anyway. At times it was just too awful it was fucking unreal man. Just everyday things, banal things, the weight of it fucking all.
He felt as if he was getting good results but he was working blind. Which sometimes felt counter-intuitive. But sometimes he felt that there must be a a reason for his instinctive adoption of this approach.
He was walking through a field with his dog. The dog was running on ahead, inquisitive as always. It was a foggy afternoon, I remember that.

Perspectives

Incriminated by his feverish grin
as soon as I meet her
commence self-sabotage
the evaporation of time
an amber lit fog
in June, in autumn

Trailing

A dripping maroon sadness
ensconced
in summer mist, stuff
that billows.
Refunded orgasms,
refuted sadness
trailing
a dismal watercolour.
The sky is a turd
lost beneath a stagnant heat.

Flowers, drawn

He watched in horror
as she drew flowers
and a rainbow and
she has to use the shower
her water
is off
she has to

Nearer

It wasn't time to catch the bus yet. It was time to smell the pillow to check if it still smelled of her. He would go for the next one.
It did smell of her still. He pressed his face deep against the cool red fabric and inhaled. Then he began writhing around on his back, the pillow pressed firmly against his face as he stifled an anguished howl. He was now addicted to her musk.
He would go downstairs, he would pour a glass of wine. It wasn't time to catch the bus yet.