The story and the images don’t match exactly. I have an unfinished post, poisonous heart, that is a more direct and different riff.
This is sense of stagnation and loss I get from the images.
They make me think of a tv series : American Horror Story. Neither post plays on this, because I’ve only recently been reading about the show and watching clips and trailers.
How did our relationship become a Bacchanalia of clichés?
Rancid smell of bare bodies on broke-mattresses in abandon spaces.
Sticking to each other like waterproof mascara on my cheek in the rain*
We still fumble each others lusting contours like a blind children feeling out their prisons or their worlds.
We still heave like the oceanic breakers; like the fishermen at their nets.
I speak in mondegreen; you scuttle away like a translucent silverfish.
I don’t look until you are out of sight.
*(rain coming down, mascara on my cheek: Nostalgia, Emily Barker, 2008)
PS: Yves, once again wonderous words from the mistress, the wizard of wordles. One small point: my attic is bulging under the silverfish apocalypse. Always had a few, now – I’m almost too creeped out to go up. And there are very few insects that have such an effect on me.