Me and Mr. Jones

by Rachel Lynch in


Upstairs in the hotel, I meet him on the 6th floor, above the bar and past the noise of the musicians. We slip into the room, I know he's no good. The trench-coats fall off and he lights a cigarette. I'm not really thinking because his voice has moved from inside my head to outside my body. He beings to speak, but there is nothing to say.

I know nothing of his current lover, and he knows not a thing of who I've been seeing. It doesn't really matter.

Lovers in their deepest revenge, we can't keep lying to ourselves like this. It doesn't matter who else there is, it will always be back to this. Two drifters from downtown, I can feel your fingers through my bones.

Every time these evenings end, we pretend we won't be back, as if we can allege  the world into taking us our separate ways. The touch that's not suppose to happen always burns deeper than the kisses of commitment. We're nothing like serial  monogamists, we fire madly in the opposite direction. Blowing up in smoke, we both can't stay satisfied.  It's a game of inferno.

Tonight, I think we'll be staying here. Our affair has developed a cult-like following, it's not safe outside.

nobody stands between me and my man...