I collect love , she said.

Dew hung off her glasses. She smiled like a primrose.

Me too, I whispered. But I guess I don’t so much collect it as I forage for it.

How does that work? she chimed

I go digging for bones that still have marrow. Suck it dry or make some broth. Hold on to the last membrane for the tiniest ounce of euphoria.

I used to cover myself in Eros’ butter. A firm, slippery substance, impervious to hate and greed. I was lithe and eager. Ready for love and all it’s glory.


Then I spent too much time in the sun. The butter turned sour. Molding into a faint ash. I couldn’t turn back time. Nothing would catch my affection.

So I took my cracked skin and started digging. At graves. At mournings. At war. At conflict.

I found the broken bones of restless hearts. Of unsanctioned dreams. And I sucked from them their last regrets.

That’s how I sustained myself.



Until I met you.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s