.
i am so tired of my bones being
romanticized; being made of
stardust does not make me infinite or
beautiful.

"I carry the star on the heel of beaten boots, the beet red road longs for the touch of stars. "

She motioned to her nose and informed him of the blood, he cupped his face before examining the crimson drops and saying “my nose bleeds sometimes, I suppose.” She agreed and walked away, into the corner of the room; she stood there and took a sip of beer. He held his hand beneath his nose for what seemed like 4 minutes but was actually only two. The blood began to pool and he sauntered to the kitchen and then turned around and went to the bathroom and closed the door.

Outside the apartment block were two lovers. Kissing under starry smiles as the broken door swings wide.

Staring into the vastness of the starry skies, he could see that all was lost and without thought or pause, held the barrel to his skull and pulled the trigger. Upon witnessing such an unprovoked and horrifying scene she ran from the car and held his body close to her breast, removing the gun from the ground on which it lay. She mimicked her lover’s action and ceased to exist along with him.

(It was all a dream.)

They held each other close, with heads together and a murmuring sigh from each of their stomachs. He mumbled into her ear “I promise I won’t look back.” Starting again on his journey, gently rejecting her body from his and refusing to make eye contact our traveler took to the cornfields, marching with intent and brushing aside the vast bushels as if he were a human scythe but he hesitated as he reached the great fence at the edge of the property; standing still he fought himself with a rigorous internal monologue before turning his head half way. She looked on with angst and hoped he wouldn’t turn fully. As he reached the point of seeing the house from the corner of his eye he snapped his head forward and gallantly marched into the woods and eventually to the desolate road from which he ventured a week earlier. The scent of Emilia in his nostrils, the finest ******* he had ever abused, the sweetest cacophony of noise, her voice in his ears, ringing like so many bells on the shore of some obscure beach in Britain. His thoughts turn to home and a solemn sigh was enough to shake, rattle, destroy his brittle bones and cause him to fall to his knees on the dusty road, screaming out to the clouds above him; wishing his mother was by his side. Tristan was lonely and the sadness of a life alone crept over him and held his shoulders in a way no person ever could or would.

He woke up and the voice on telephone that was curiously at his ear told him that his mother was dead. He went back to sleep. He woke again and wrote a novel. He then deleted the files from his computer and went for a walk in the park as that used to ease his depression during childhood. The trees were black and the sky was still blue. It was odd, and his nose was bleeding. Back home he woke up the computer from its dormant state and opened various sites in a cyclical manner. The hours passed and his back began to hurt. It was 7:43AM and the computer monitor became inexplicably brighter as the sun followed suit, pushing through the faded curtains and seeping through the gap and onto the wooden floor. He refreshed the web page and sighed. Nothing was happening. The world was over. He sat straight and slumped over before dragging himself across the room and falling from the chair to his bed. Asleep again and no dreams were had.

The world outside the window stood grey and as motionless as the icy waters when Lethe freezes over. The world outside is dead. All of these people are now one.

Look up,
they'll be fights going on
in the deepest hours of the night,
all behind pretty-born neon lights.

Look over,
she'll be mid argument with him
using uncouth words that appear blunt,
all behind a red brick front.

Peak 'round,
he'll be throwing clothes into suitcases
clearing out the wardrobe, not leaving traces,
all behind walls of places

you know.

he said he believes that
after we die, we come back as birds
(but what happens after that
i asked; he shrugged and said
does it make a difference?)

There’s a blank sheet of paper before me,
It’s as blank as our lives have become,
But nothing’s been said, though the passion is dead,
We still make believe we are one.
And the days seem to drift on forever
In this mist that I call ‘No Man’s Land,’
Whatever I say, you’ll be looking away
And you never reach out for my hand.

We eat all our meals in a silence
And pretend we enjoy it that way,
I reach for the newspaper, you for a book
So our eyes never meet in dismay.
Where there once was a ripple of laughter
As your foot rubbed inside of my leg,
Your lips are now pursed in a silence that’s cursed
And I feel that you want me to beg.

We shop, as if we are together,
And we smile when we see our old friends,
But friendship is rare, as our friends couldn’t bear
To watch as this partnership ends.
They can sense all that distance between us,
And note that our smiles are grim,
We never accept invitations,
Unless they’re for ‘her’ or for ‘him’.

Now you’re suddenly working long hours
At the bookshop, when you feel disposed,
Though I’ve wandered at night in the market,
And noticed, the bookshop is closed.
Then you wander back in about midnight,
And go on straight up to your room,
You’re taking your showers at the strangest of hours
While I sit downstairs in the gloom.

So now that I’ve put it on paper,
I shall leave this brief note by your bed,
It might shine a light on our silences,
The issues that should have been said.
I know you’ll be happier once I’ve gone
So I’m catching the midnight train,
I want you to know that I loved you once,
But that love has now turned, to pain!

David Lewis Paget