best kind of bad love affair. 

At the Minibar... For weeks, darling, Nicola Gledhill

At the Minibar... For weeks, darling, Nicola Gledhill

For weeks, darling,

NICOLA GLEDHILL

 

I’ve let the lonely in each morning at 8 a.m.

and fed it pieces of my sleep, all the parts

that have escaped me in twisted sheets.

I’ve lived on tea and toast without jam

and suffered sore knees on Sundays, I spent

a grey afternoon turning pillowcases inside

out, to rid them of the memory of your head.

I’ve dried all my dishes the right way up

so they take too many hours to drain, I lose

myself in journal entries from the last week

of June. I’ve stopped reading the paper, even

the headlines make fun of my melancholy,

darling, but I play the Amelie soundtrack

most days, and have had sex just twice, and only

then to feel guilty. Each time I think of you

at the beginning, then remember to forget

myself at the end, if only to unravel once

and feel the pull again; it feels quite modern,

you’d be proud of me, I know, but afterwards,

lying still, I stare at the sheeting rain and count

the number of baked bean tins left in the pantry,

and pickles in jars, like tiny briny penises.
 Photo - Robert Holmes

Photo - Robert Holmes


Write in to feverhotelhq@gmail.com tell us your tales of love & heartbreak. x

Guest Book: Runes, Emma Bainbridge

Guest Book: Runes, Emma Bainbridge

wEiRd wOrLd

wEiRd wOrLd