post-love
I miss the touch of your skin -
scratch that, I miss the touch of another’s skin, doesn’t matter whose,
pressed against mine: the tangled limbs messing up my bed, a
coffin for two - we were buried deeper in comfort, the longer
we stay the harder it is to get out, to wake up and face reality and
indeed, by the time we wake up, we have lost some things - our clothes,
our fatigue, our souls. When we began, little did we know that
intimacy strips us, but not only from the outside- it creeps under
our skins, stealing our hearts, wrapping its claws around our lungs,
we can hardly breathe after a while - love is suffocating, love
is a trap. Love leeches on life; we are stripped inside out until
we are but skin and bones, walking bones - zombies of leftover
emotions - not much, but enough to pass us as alive, to deceive
the unsuspecting eyes that perhaps, perhaps we survived love.