A Sad Song.

A Sad Song.
Lee.
The fan churns humid, spent air, spreading the funk of heat, perfume and sex.
Too hot and sticky to think.
Sweating walls are food and a home for creeping fungi;
Rotten birthmarks of mould colonising the room.
Teal curtains block-out the sun.
People are melting beyond its veil;
Itās dangerous out there.
Our fooling around is done,
Two bottles of red drained, we baste in the cloying heat;
Half asleep, half dead.
Cheap speakers speak, in a tinny, bass-free tone.
Edith Piaf laments,
Adds a smothering gloom to the dim-lit room;
Inimical, her depressive style.
Staring at the ceiling fan,
And not knowing a word of French,
We whir along to the sad song.
Ā

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Comments
A goodieĀ
Wow, hey theĀ Edith Piaf reference is so powerful, listening to french music you don't understand whilst in this moment just adds to the terrific tragedy. Your imagery brings out the very emotionsĀ of a possible memorable one night stand. š¹Ā