Postcards...

Met a girl with spicy fingers...
with a smile unkind, it bent my mind...
You know for sure the feeling lingers...
 blind the light, hear her silent sigh...

She lay a sleep, naked upon my chest, between sleep and dreams she drooled on my chest. In the mirror it looked like clear dried up glue, I peeled it off my chest along with a hair or two. It's not that we didn't love each other, we were just not in love.

A month and a half has gone by since she moved in, and already my room seems to be fading away. At first it was the extra pillow, her head is yet to rest upon it; then it was the sheets, curtains, a lamp, and a suicidal plant.

The sex is  good, conversations dull. The plant will die by the end of the week, a good metaphor for our liaison. Her jet black hair flecked with purple was as ludicrous as her taste in music, but the sex was still good.

She was everything that she should not be, and hated all that I would ever be. Yet she lay naked upon me. A perfect postcard of post modern  young love: naked skinny girl drooling up on a skinny guy, laying naked on a ruffled white sheet, the bed surrounded by clothes ripped of the night before, the scene illuminated by the golden light of the morning filtered through a lone dusty window. I could not have seen it better if the ceiling we a mirror.

Sometimes love doesn't work.