The next love story - Part 5

Going gray. No point pretending. Look at the bastards around my temples. Who told you to give up so soon?! Haven't you noticed the rest of me?! Slackers.. Part-timers.. Traitors!
Where did I leave the paper? Can't remember what's on television tonight. Maybe I should go out.. Don't fancy going out. Would rather get some food in and a couple of beers. Going out could be good for me. Distracting. I should go out.
Who am I kidding, I can't be bothered. No. I am not going out.
What time is it? Too late to call Europe. Could wake her up. And have some phone sex.
What if she isn't alone.
Maybe I will have a cigarette instead. What?? All gone. Damn.
Got to get some.
Sod it, I am going out.

The next love story - Part 4

I shall never understand those couples who sit at restaurant tables for hours in silence, looking at each other in a bored vacuum. Relieved when the food arrives, as they have something to keep their mouths busy. Not to mention those who stand cross-armed and sad-faced at gigs, staring at the crowed, looking for entertainment.
Yes, it is probably the envy talking.
He is many nautical miles away. I am so entrenched in this single loneliness, I have almost forgotten his face.
But isn't that always the case? The difficulty to picture the exact features of the ones we love. And of cats. The details of their snout never quite manage to anchor in my memory.
What is left, what I keep going back to, is the footprint of a sensation. Of his hands on my cheeks when he kisses. Of the shrug in his shoulders when he walks away. 
Then it all dissolves to the sound of the alarm clock early in the morning. And there is no time left for nonsense.

The next love story - Part 3

Fallen into the very common trap of living, the days started to stack one after the other. A long line of repeated dawns and sunsets. A cycle of biorhythmic repetition. They balanced on the phone line, with the dangerous uncertainty of a fearful funambulist.

Looking at the different sides of the half glass, he embraced the sensual grip of the tangible, while she succumbed to nerves and denial. Both relishing the sweet, welcome pain of hundreds returns.

And wrapped inside a geometric series of infinite boxes, a trick, an illusion, a divertissement. Desire.

I quit (brief interlude)‏

Considering last week's brutal reminders of our transient and rough journey through the valleys of joy, I decided to quit a couple of time wasters.
From most television programmes, to people who don't love me.

Yes, life's too short.

You are all invited to do the same.