LOVE’S DEAD

Photo by Rade Martinović on Unsplash

Lines, sparkling cars.
Cling film, cans.
Ash, dust, liquid gold.
Blood beat.
Misery metronome.
There’s nothing new here to be found.
Too many miles on the clock at twenty.
No spark lights up the heart.
Love’s dead.

Rolled notes, sweat wet hair.
Dry mouth, sour tongue.
Debts,
cashed out between spread legs.
Stargazing from tarmac.
Gravel grazed.
There’s no romance to this.
Love’s dead.

Bent over cars.
Crusty dick. Child-mother.
He says “ Do everyone a favour and commit suicide”.
He’ll treat us right,
if I learn how to behave.
I make it hard on him.
He needs me to love him more.

Love’s dead.
Empty space.
Warmth’s a stranger.
Comfort’s cold.
There’s nothing to this.
There’s nothing more.
Haunt my own hallways.
Love’s dead.