Apocalypse

I wanted her at that point, someone as damaged as me, so that we may heal each other. The heaviness of her vibes. The sweet depression that mingled with mine. How would the sex be? I think it would be sweet, heavy, just like the depression, and dirty, cause we have both seen the edge. And then we would both listen to Apocalypse by Cigarettes After Sex. That's how two broken people mend each other, that's how two raped souls heal each other. Lot of love, lot of sweet heaviness of depression and a lot of sex, "milan" as they call in Sanskrit. That's when two broken souls collide and find their universe together to realise that they were never broken at the first place, they were just waiting for each other to become whole. She got away, only to get raped more and I remained with my muses, writing poems in her memory. What would have happened if we weren't damaged? She would have sat pillion on my motorbike while we went for long rides. She would have put chewed gum, still retaining a faint sweetness from her mouth to my mouth from behind while I searched for spot to park the bike. I remain with my muses, from all over the world, remembering her while she became a groupie, a whore. I write in her memory, I listen to Apocalypse by Cigarettes After Sex. It is apocalypse, when even your muses get raped. I talked to my muses, some of them raped beyond recognition and they still inspire me, you have got to do your job right. My muses are like me, they do their job, no matter what. She once told me she would dress like Vidya Sinha and we would go out in the rain to have bhuttas together. She now dresses like a whore and acts like one. Vidya Sinha has been raped out of her soul, her asshole as gaping a void as my soul without her.