once my lover,

by Rachel Lynch in


once my lover

Not that I knew what his nights were like, well one night is accredited to my memory. The clock showed two in the morning and I found myself incapable of slumber. I stood for awhile at the window, listening to his raspy breathing. His sleep was no more know to me than any other stranger. He makes more sense to me sleeping than he does working. He is known to be frank and I lured him in with my glassy eyes. As I look out the window, the city still awake just like any other, I feel the pocket flannel barley keeping my breathing body warm. I move my fingers towards the glass at the window and quickly  I am reminded of my fingers in his mouth. I pull my hands back and wrap my left around my right wrist, making sure it felt as real as it did to him. A lack of complacency came over me, I begin again to reach at the glass window. Before my hands could reach whatever elusive matter I was pursuing, I suddenly retreated, sinking into my knees. I slid my hands into the empty space between my thighs and clutched the skin.

Time is supposed to pass quicker than this. And I wish I had less need for a working clock. This place seems completely believable, as believable as every other city I sleep in. I tried to make some sense of all the buildings, but nothing proved relevant enough.

I walked over to his side and place my hands upon his slow moving chest. He was breathing, but I knew that already. I returned to the window, pulling myself into the fetal position. As I do so, I am reminded of the endless struggle between good and evil, between light and darkness. I look up to the faint stars and feel a growing comfort from the light they provided. The momentary satisfaction of communion with a false God always ends in addiction. Yet, I can’t stop wanting it and I’ve lost my ability to choose.

I feel as if a natural environment would persuade me to repent of my venial sins and give way to inner harmony.

But, who the fuck would allow themselves such a pleasure.

I run my fingers through my tangled hair and claw at my skin in apathetic discord. I walk over to the dark wooden nightstand. Quietly, I pull at the handle of the drawer and reach for the standard bible. I open its tissue thin contents to what seemed like page one thousand. I begin to read, “Man is divided in himself. As a result, the whole life of men, both individual and social, shows itself to be a struggle, and a dramatic one, between good and evil”.

I throw the book back in the direction of the wooden nightstand. It didn’t wake him and I didn’t care. He was breathing heavy, or at least it seemed that way. There was something particularly displeasing about all the lights and sounds on the other side of the glass window.  I feel completely in cord with the dark hotel room and every reason that has brought me here. Yet, I couldn’t help but become engulfed in the way the light was hitting my skin.

I run my fingers down my thighs.

My skin is pale. No, my skin is eccentric.