Category: love

Toaster Tale

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 You always liked to play games. Sometimes sweet, sometimes spicy.

One day, we stood in the kitchen talking about your kink for tasty toes. You often joked that you would love to set your feet on fire. I thought you were being a bit creative.

One evening, as we sit casually in the lounge room, you bring me the toaster. There’s a weird look on your face. I ask you ever so casually, “What are you doing?“

“I’m determined to understand the fire of feet…“

“What the…? You better not turn it on! No! Wait! Don’t you dare put my toes in there! I shall kill you!”

“I won’t turn it on, I promise.“

“…You’re so weird… My poor feet. They cry in terror at the thought…”

“I would roast my toes for you, baby.“

“No, you won’t.“

Suddenly, his toes are in the toaster.

“Please don’t turn it on!“

A Sausage of Feelings

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I bought a sausage maker. It sat in the cupboard for a decade. Then, one day, I decided to make sausages.

I remember how young you and I were when you bought the machine; we were in our late 20’s? Yes, I think so.

Waists were smaller then, minds were less clouded, hearts less broken, and hope brighter.

I stood before the sausage maker and thought that if I could make the perfect sausage for you, it would contain the following ingredients:

one part happiness
one part hope
one part kindness
one part worth
one part 1000 echo’s from the sea
one part the essence of 100 sunsets and sunrises
one part 1000 snowflake feels
one part essence of 100 people laughing loud

Then I would present it to you, ask you to eat it, and then ask you to look at yourself in the mirror. I would ask you, “What do you see?” I hope you can see the person you are to me, my sweet bear.

Boxes

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I am packing the boxes to find old treasures that I thought didn’t exist, for I forgot about them.

I find that old black and white picture, a vase from Mum’s place with purple orchards, a trinket with sentimental value from school, and the plaster from my broken arm.

I’m thinking about the awakened memories as feelings start to rush and mess with my heartstrings.

Sniffing the items a little, I’m sneezing and crying.

Ice Cube Heart

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Ice cubes sit in the freezer. I think about how they used to be liquid from the tap, and now they are blocks of ice. My thoughts remind me of a story once told by an old sentimental fool.

A man and a woman loved each other. When his love was new to her, his heart was warm. He and she moved through life easily, for the days were sunny despite the weather. His laughter was so infectious to her that she would often bloom with a smile.

After some time passed, his heart turned into those ice cubes. In her heart, he remained dear despite the cold feelings that crept into his arteries. Although there was no warmth in his heart anymore, she never gave up hope that his love was real.

Then, on a day like any other, they travelled together in the car; He was driving and calling her names over something trivial; She was very upset. He did not realise that soon she would leave this world, and he would no longer have the sunshine of his heart.

An accident occurred. As she lay dying in the passenger seat, his heart began to melt. He then realised how much he loved her. He promised to honour her memory by climbing many mountains and exploring the Earth with her ashes so that they could both see the world together.

That sentimental old fool is the man in this story. He died a few years ago and had her ashes sprinkled all over him before he was cremated.

My Knees Squeak

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You fucked off.
Where you went is none of my concern, now that your heart and mine don’t sing a pretty song.
Now, all I can do is talk to myself about regrets and shit. I’m alone, in my 30’s, and my bank balance is small. You even took the cat with you because you said fluffy loves you more!
In my desolation and decay, I put on five kilograms from eating too many Swiss chocolates, my clothes don’t fit properly, and I look like a frump.
Now that I have taken the path of least resistance and succumbed to watching shit loads of television and listening to crap music, my knees squeak as I move from the couch to the coffee table, and I talk to myself in a morphed language.
When will you acknowledge that I still love you, or am I just blowing hot air up my arse?

Tablecloth Blues

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“Darling, dinner is almost finished. Will you scratch my back? It’s so itchy…“

He gets up from the table, heads towards the man cave, then says, “I’ll think about it…“

You’re still itchy, and you know even if he is taking the piss, he’ll make you wait for a scratch.

The tablecloth has embroidered bumps that move along the fabric in perfectly proportioned lines. It suits your obsessive nature.

You take off your top, and then you begin to rub your back against the tablecloth.

The salt and pepper shakers fall over with a bump, the tomato sauce bottle rolls onto the floor, and the plates start to move towards the edge.

He comes out to investigate the cause of the noise, only to find his pretty girl scratching her back on the tablecloth.

“Are you quite alright there?“

“I’m itchy!“

“I’d better scratch you then…“

“No groping! Be nice!“

“I’m always nice, and you know it.“

You turn her head and give him a sideways eye smile as you start to moan from the nails down your skin.