She once told me, very forcefully; entropy and decay are two different things. 

Hand slammed down on the desk, eyes black like a pair of eclipses, cheekbones so sharp they could cut God and draw his blood.  I didn’t understand, and now the threat of violence had thrown the tenuous thought balloons I clung to out of my hands and into the sky.  As I realised they were floating away, she moved in for the kill.  Every frustration she’d had with the relationship, every argument we’d never had, every dream I’d accidentally stepped on.

The footstool flew first.  I’d seen this fire before but only in the early days, when we’d bang our teeth together in eagerness to kiss and consume, when we’d fuck half naked, or with just our jeans tight around our knees, clumsily trying to grind together.  Pictures came down from the walls – maybe she threw them or maybe they got caught up in the moment and flew.  I grabbed her wrists.  She thought about kissing me – I saw it in those eyes.  But she didn’t.  She packed and left.

That was a year ago.  I’ve tidied up now, but I think about her phrase every day.  Entropy and decay.  Decline, chaos, endings.  Stars destroying everything they helped to create and maintain before going supernova, leaving behind the building blocks of new life.

I look up.  Her breath still lingers in the high corners of the room.  And I’m too scared to reach up and touch it.


Author: jimmicampkin

Writer and photographer (and occasional other things) currently living in the North East of England. Everything is my own unless otherwise stated. So blame me.

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