No Cygnet for Sleep: 1
‘No Cygnet for Sleep’ contains strong language, sexual scenes, drug use, and gore.
No Cygnet for Breakfast
By Jivan Ward
Brown-tip-dip-dyed-blond hair like butter on forehead and taste and touch and kiss you on your shoulder and chest and your hands squeeze mine. Eyes like seawater or Bornite or something nearly something almost as fluorescent and blue-green and sink into your soul. I. My name and I say yours and we breathe we homunculus in salty sweaty bed sheets smell like lavender I washed them before you came. No lonely hairs or lonely sweat stains I washed away the nights of winter and summer and nobody but me. You change. Quivers from your legs around my waist and behind my back and digging scratching and pressing into beside myself. I. Lips tingle with each press and contact smack against yours ribbed and smooth taut skin. Caramel runs down my belly into yours and back up spine and down thighs and calves and toes curling out into pseudo-novocaine jitters and. You breathe down my back near neck and shoulder blades shiver.
Silence extends long supple fingers like hair tickling each tendon and nerve ending. Livewire sparklers ignition gurgling silence and breathe. I’m not romantic I swear.
You sit opposite me coffee mug cigarette ash falling down on top of the carpet. There’s no light like sun syrup through bay windows on pale cheek of avian marble and body unfamiliar in daylight and foreign and far away. Old lipstick sunk into your skin, I ask about that festival, hardly reply look out into concrete and high rise window frames nestling double-glazed glass and Saturday morning sleepers, families’ pixel hopping, students hibernating in blue-grey darkness. Shadows crawl over your nose and toothy grin you say Take a picture. I prefer memory. Okay. Half empty coffee mug clunk on faux-wood countertop and brown liquid brims the bottom. You stand up in my old Jimmy Eat World shirt below red frill peeps. Footsteps thud back to the bedroom watch me as you shut the bedroom door.
Blue kettle light quits and rattles with steam and brittle bits of limescale dandruff. Hover over mug and tea bag, I soak in steam. Wooden stool creaks and you’re still there wonder should I’ve follow or wait or maybe you sleep. Apologise to you to myself I wake up early than usual when drunk I don’t have memory to keep when there’s just lights and music and nothing else. Think to last in bar in Soho in tune with the crass chattering and clink of glasses and ice cubes cracking to vodka and coke. We drink and chat and feet glance legs under tabletop and grin. That little smirk up corner of your mouth and eye contact breaching contacts with naked intent. We stumble out on to platform and night bus doors beeping open and shut door slams shoes clunk and roll and, yeah.
You stand in the door way. Fresh lipstick smile and kiss on cheek, no time wait when woe prefix.
Jivan Ward was born and reared in London, where he learnt that there’s more to life than what surrounds you. Stumbling out of a tumultuous passion for music, into the corridors of libraries and the dank recesses of fiction, he began writing poetry and short stories before going to university to study the craft and art of writing. Tit led to tat and he works in retail and is currently writing a novel and running a blog. He believes the internet is a force of neutrality and that the publishing industry should invest more in its authors than its devices.
For more Information on this Series, Visit: No Cygnet for Sleep: An Introduction
To Follow the Entire Series, Visit: No Cygnet for Sleep: Jivan Ward