The wolves never stop howling in the night . . . by Roberto Roja


Roberto Roja is the author of Filth & Romance, published by Laughing Fire Press

 

With every glass of wine poured, the words flow real and true across the page, while The Mammas across the world are nestled inside their homes watching The Kardashians and Dancing with the Stars. With every cigarette inhaled, memories of her love, her sex, her spirit rush back into his awareness like the wind entering an empty room, dancing with silver chimes, creating a music and magic that is never heard or felt by anyone. And he sits there each night, looking out into the darkness, blistered by her essence, awaiting her return.

While records created by the greats are played from his stereo, other women come and go from his apartment, an endless cycle of filth and romance banging away at his life, the rhythm, the beat, the melody which is never in tempo with finding her again and rekindling the love they once shared.

The moon hangs low over the sea. A bright yellow glow shines across the liquid salt. And with every breaking wave hitting the shoreline, he hears her cry for him to jump into the deep and swim towards her magic, where the moon’s glow meets the last breaking wave, knowing he might drown, yet still has the balls to take that chance to hold her for one last time.

With every poem written about her, with every dream stolen from the nights by the light of day, with every glass of wine, every cigarette, every blank page, every fuck-up, he takes every small step toward the realisation that a perfect love does not lie in the arms of two sweethearts embracing one another by the sea, but instead lies in the depths of layers upon layers of a tragic and broken core. And no matter how softly the wind blows, caressing all the burnt coatings, the wounds never fade, and he forever lies in the empty space like a scarred beast from the fairy tales of old where the wolves lurk in the night outside his chamber, awaiting the last great battle he will ever fight.

You were a magic that can only be discovered once in a lifetime. And now, like the scarred beast I am, I am torn apart by your love, your spirit, your lips, and your soul. The silver chimes ring. The wind blows. The story continues without your involvement. And the wolves feast upon my flesh in the night, howling their essence into the higher plains of existence, far beyond where the red bleeding moon cries her tears into the liquid salt. You had me. I had you. We had the magic baby, the moon, the wolves, the sad comedy of it all, hidden right there, nestled between the stained sheets under which we both loved, laughed, fucked, hid, and slept.

No matter how the words continue to flow, the mood never changes. Your memory, your magic will forever stick. So here’s a salute to you; a beautiful woman who stole my heart and stained the sheets with her entire essence and being. X

 

 

 

 

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