Neon lights penetrate into the curtains and shed a colorful blast on the darkest of canvas. Leftover food scattered all over the ground. Random newspapers crumbled into a ball at the corner of the room, with dead cockroaches’ legs sticking out. The stained blanket leaks a smell that suggests a combination of pickles and licorice. We wrap that blanket around our naked bodies to withstand this lingering night.
In your iris, I catch a glimpse
of a crimson hell
awaiting in soft
Flies rest on our eyelashes, probably laying eggs as well. As we blink, they fly off and kiss every wasted part of you and me. A long-withstanded peace breaks the moment you crash the fly on my face. Its black guts spill and spatters on my filthy strands of hair. Perhaps there is a power shortage because all lights and colours are withdrawn since the last sight of you leaning close to me.
I wish you felt my voice in the air.