The room reeks of brokenness, longing, and regrets linger in the air. We have just had a session of crazy mad steamy love making and our bodies are covered in sweat. It is the winter of 2019, the moon is full and orange, it’s face still sorrowful, I have never seen it smile. When I tell him that the moon is sad, he calls me crazy and says that I am the one who is sad.

We are sitting on the bed, naked in the dark by the four bar heater. There are five loose ciggies on the dressing table, he takes two, hands me one as we both use the heater as our lighter. For a short while we bask in silence. Our silence is painfully loud and sweet. Somehow we find something in our silence, something that makes us feel whole, something that comforts us.

I dig for my phone in my jean pocket which is in on the floor and play “Flamenco sketches” by Miles Davis. As I take a long drag from the cancer stick he tells me how he hates that I smoke this much, he says this while his eyes are still fixated on the heater. I blow the smoke in his face and he pushes me away while I giggle.

Taking a gulp from the black label bottle I pass it to him, he takes a sip and smacks his lips together and puts it down. We are silent again. I get closer to him, right now we are clinging on every note in Flamenco sketches, Miles is blowing our blues away; every note of the upright bass and piano man stitching together our torn souls.

He looks anxiously at the heater, and I wonder what’s going through his mind. With every pull he takes he squints his eyes, I’ve always found it sexy. He is beautiful, the light from the heater makes his skin look like bronze. His body is that of a god. His dreadlocks dangle gloriously at his shoulders. I am in love with him, but I never make the mistake of convincing myself that he loves me. We are just a good time together, love is a myth to me anyway, more like waiting for Godot.


Tell us: Do you agree that love is a myth, who or why not?