A Murder of Crows

This is the story of a man who is asexual and falls in love. it is about how we define ourselves in the modern age, and what love means to those who have no physical avenue to explore. It is about the way we interact with our families, and how echoes of past lives filter through to us.


10. Heartbeats

Please, remember me
I heard from someone you're still pretty
And then
They went on to say
That the pearly gates
Had some eloquent graffiti
Like 'We'll meet again'
And 'Fuck the man'
And 'Tell my mother not to worry'
And angels with their gray
Were always done in such a hurry
And [1]


The breath catches in my throat. I gasp, gulping in a pellet of air that sits uncomfortably in my lungs. Rattling around. That is what happens when I think of life without R____. This is just a symptom of why I love her.


The way her dark hair glows in the low light of Autumn. A halo of light brown fire framing her when she has her back to me.


The way she gets excited at the luminous orange vapour trails of planes at dusk.


I think of why it was her that I fell in love with, and the reasons crash over themselves like waves to proclaim the feeling to me.


The joy she gets at seeing the moon during the day. This tracing paper image in the blue morning light.


The way she mops up the melted butter from the plate she has her toast on. The way she tries to clean it as she wipes with the crust of her breakfast.


The way her eye lashes curl at the edge of the crease, between her eye and the end.


That she laughs louder than a train.


She cries when she doesn’t know why, and she doesn’t know how to lie.


The way she makes food that is too filling, the way she worries for my health.

The way I bring her chocolate and flowers, and this makes her smile, and the way she doesn’t bring me any.


The way she goes sliding down banisters in hotels, the way she forgets her age.

The reason why it always seems sunny to her, and that way my pain was funny.


The way she folds paper over and over, to fit it in her pocket, and how she sneezes so loud.


The way she sings so badly.


The way she never shows me how.


The way her shoes stay in the hall, as the smell is so bad, the way she forgets my look when I am mad. The way she likes the smell of a new book, but not the ink that stains her fingers.


I love the way she can’t remember her dreams 2 minutes after waking.


I love the way she sometimes doesn’t listen and I love it when she does

The way she looks into my eyes, and the way she works her way into my head.


The smell of her as she comes to bed, the lotions she uses , the potions she uses

And the spell she cast on me.


She starts a new book, and reads the end first, and that she sometimes reads novels back to front. The way she promises postcards to send, the way I miss her so much when she isn’t around.


The way she talks through telly.


The way she won’t fly.


The way her left arm always goes under her head when she sleeps, the way her right arm has to hold me.


Some people find it hard to count the little moments, like the way she made me drink water, the way she looks after me when I am ill.


The way she breaks things when I get her angry, the way she always looks to mend.


I remember the way her hair was parted, when we went for drinks, I love the way she’d tuck it behind her ear, as she went to think.


I love the way she ums and aahs, the way she takes for ever and sees no rush.


I love the way she waits for my call, even if I fail and make it never.

I love it when she phones me drunk, but also when she smiles at me when sober.

I love the way nothing will hurt her except a forgotten ‘I love you’.


I love it when she is broken.

I love it when the only thing that can save her always remains unspoken.


I love the way she needs me,

I hate it when she doesn’t

I love the way I can’t forget her,

I love her cause she can.


She doesn’t think  I hear her cracking, I love that tiny sound.

I love to hear her heart beating as the sun goes down.

I like the way she holds my hand, as I am her trophy and prize.


Memories lie to me, and so I only love her,

I love the way she makes my heart sing.

I love it when she closes my eyes and whispers in my ear.

I love the way she is scared,

Of peas and bats and sharks and trees and millions in between.

But I think the thing I love the most is that she fears me.


For what I could do, with her heart strings,

With what I could do to her smile.

I wish the night to come crashing down, so I could love her for a longer while.


I love her for the way she makes me feel.

I love her for what she did.

I loved her for a million reasons,

And I love her for a million more.


She let me see, how all those things that slip in my life, I would never let her be.

I like the way my stomach turns to knots as she walks away,

The way she moves like time, slowly and away.

The way she turns my night to day

The way she lets me die.


I love the fact that I love her,

I love I will never really know why.







[1] The Trapeze Swinger Iron and Wine

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