Oh yes, he found comfort with us, in our arms and later in the warmth of our cunts, but always the talk of sin, of loss, of loneliness.
And that face, the nose too big, unlikely angles and the eyes, never warm.
I wonder if they’re any warmer now, I wonder where he is now, we kinda lost touch.
Somone said he was famous now, but I dont know, he always seemed to wrapped up in stuff, I can’t imagine him on MTV.
He slept with both us, one each side, wrapped around him, the sisters of mercy he called us and yeah, it was a mercy fuck, this dude was drowning in dark thoughts, lost in some kind of deep.
He’d talk about Jesus and God like it was real, like it had just happened, not something from the olden days, when he talked about the crucifixion, his eyes would fill with tears and then we’d make him smile, try and get him away from this bad place.
He said he’d write a song for us, used to fool around on his guitar, said everyone should have a sister of mercy, someone to reach out to when the lights are too bright.He liked to look at us in moonlight. His hands, big strong hands, such long fingers, caressing us, stroking us, the way he’d stroke that big old guitar.
He said he didnt love us, not like real love, he was saving that for his God, the God that watched him, tortured him and it was a long time ago and we thought that it was ok, good enough to be the sisters.
He said he’d told all his friends, said that they should look us up and fools, we felt kinda proud, pleased.
He said could make men feel better, free-er.
He always crept away before we woke, a tangle of arms and legs, with an absence at its core.
He never asked how we felt, about anything, anything at all.