Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

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Tag: love

The Balcony on the First Floor

You’re in love with a Hollywood chick. She takes off her glasses and the whole world shifts into focus, every colour is 20% more vibrant. You get both of you drunk, you hold a speech for her, about how unworthy you are of her; she pushes you off the balcony into the pool. She gets a mohawk, does it up all green and purple. She tells you to go fuck yourself; she gets a restraining order. Is this how it’s supposed to happen? You watch the movies again, to figure out where this all went off-script. You don’t get it.

Pitch Drop

It is a misnomer to say that they have buried the hatchet, as that would imply an intention of keeping it in the ground. The tell-tale thing beats under the floorboards, right below their bed, while the air is thick with taciturnity. The hatchet is the only thing willing to spill guts. They sit about one body’s width apart, sinking into the mattress.

“I’m sorry,” she says, stroking a lock of hair back so she can look at him without turning her head. Her mouth is dry. Her words come like molasses,

but his are a pitch drop. “I know.”


If you scan deep enough, deeper than where the blood comes from, you will see where the ink spills out. It finds its creases and grooves, and it flows down the inside of your skin until it reaches your ankles, where it fades out.

If you look at the sky, you will see where the ink runs, you will see patterns in the criss-cross, and you will know the names of the brightest lights.

Everybody’s blood is the same colour. However –

You and I stare at the sky the same way, we have the same tattoos hidden under our skin.


Your death seeps through from that other world. That place where the colours are different and your doppelgänger is dead. Don’t worry, I say, people in alternate realities must die like flies, surely, but your body temperature still falls. Your eyes are less green today.

I try to save me, you ask me why. From the circumstances given, it is not entirely clear which question you are asking, but I answer: “I love you.” I excuse myself to go to the restroom. I lock myself in a stall. Some of my original colours seep through when I cry this much.


We die together and it is romantic. We don’t stay dead for long because you made a jarring post to your blog, and someone cared, and someone else called the emergency services. The last thing I hear before I die is a siren’s wail, which I find poetic. Elephants climb the stairs. The door is kicked in, we are rescued. I blame you. This is me blaming you, still. They tell me you puked up your insides and that there was no romance in sight, that you convulsed. It was all very undignified. There is no real dignity in love.


Today, I told someone that I love her (in a language she barely understands) in a park, in a slightly shaky voice because I hadn’t thought it out as well as I’d hoped. And she said that she loves me (in a language I have mostly forgotten), in a whisper in my ear. Surely there were other languages around us that day.

(in the bugs that kept crawling over us, between their bug pheromones)

(in the electricity between us, between nerve clusters on the surface and deeper down)

(in the stilted, blushing manner of whoever filed that public indecency charge)

Today is a Tuesday

Today, I place the last of the secret love letters, shakily written but with a positive message. We have all the time in the world.

Today, I woke up thinking of all my dead friends. I am angry at them for not saying goodbye. I am not connected.

I never want to write a last will and testament, I’m afraid people will think I’m thinking about the rope again. I don’t want them to feel like they should be angry at me for not saying goodbye yet.

Today, I will hug you forever, with all the time I have left.

The Sun Found its Goal

On the 7th of May 2012, the sun found its goal. Ever since birth the sun had been searching, looking for her all along, and it burned with twenty million furnaces just for a chance to see her. As it did, scrutinising the planet suddenly storming in joy, it stopped exerting its energy, and focused solely on her. So it came to be that from that moment until the next time she was under a roof or under a cloud, no-one else got sun. When it lost her again, it could not express its sorrow, but it continued searching, fiercer.

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Of Course

I open my eyes to find my bedroom covered in newspaper clippings. Two balls of yarn have been slaughtered during the course of the night, their entrails decorate the walls now. Where did you get all these newspapers? You’re naked, still naked (and so gorgeous). I make a joke, you don’t react. I put a hand to your head and ask: did you get any sleep? Is this about what I said last night? First you shake your head, then you nod it. I don’t think I’ve seen your eyes this big before. “You really love me,” you say, helplessly.

What M Stands for

M is for mystery. We don’t know who we are. M is for mistake: she likes the bed that we sleep in because it evens out our bruises and we wake up with identical colours motleying our skin. M is for mischief, for the way she tugs at my hair and turns around, pretending someone else did it, whistling even though she can’t whistle. M is for morphine, her analgesic touch. She likes to rest her hand against my chest and just keep it there. M is for mess, the state of the bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen when she leaves.