All of the lovers in the stars. Blindly waiting for a better outcome. Giving into the carnal need of the flesh with which they entice their other halves. Water breaking on jagged rocks with an assorted whistle tone. Eyes become wet with sadness, as their pupils dilate into miniature black pools of forgotten memories. He brings the back of his hand to her face, gently caressing her cheek. She smiles and glances at him, only for a few seconds. She takes his hand and pushes it away. Love is only a distraction, an internal soliloquy of vague niceties and projected insecurities. Out loud the dialogue is regressive in nature. Repetition becomes his answer to everything, an example of the words that take shape at the corners of his lips. The word “sorry” becomes a place holder for what he actually means. What he means to say is that he cannot wait to hurt her again. He cannot wait to make her feel inadequate as a woman, to have one more degree of power over her as she urges to be needed. She forgets the red marks on her forearm, only for a moment. The fingerprints he’s left engraved into her body like a sheath of dead skin cells and whiskey sours. A dark night, the windows shaking as the wind sings its angry song and waves crash at the shore like giant fists against a wooden table.