Flat

I lay down, in my head. I keep staring (like a fool) into her eyes, and a nausea floods up within me as I plummet. She keeps smiling because she does not see into me.

We’ve seen a film about a french singer who might have cancer.

Love spreads herself out, blocks the sun, replaces the sky.

Oh, I see the memories passing by my face. I smell her, and, for a moment, it is fond; but then it is passing.

And when Love herself leaves the sun has left and the sky has left.

It is funny: only now do I remember climbing these walls, as I return to them on the way down. I cannot imagine what it was like at the bottom.

How new information can shed light on the past! She was fucking him, I suppose. That really makes sense now.

Oh? I fall past the bottom.

I think I will be lying down for a while, in my head.