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Frank Joussen

Two Weak to Run


The abyss is right there, in front of his groping, grabbing fingertips. He buries his whole hand in the gap between their two matrasses. It is there in the middle of the night, yet no one dares to see it: The hole in their togetherness.


Though she´ll come to lie down later for sure she´ll become once again the presence of an absence of erstwhile two spoons happily spilling their liquids into each other, then staying glued to one another all night in body, all day in soul.


If he has got the soul, he will muster the strength to run back to that feeling, that notion, that certainty of being glued.

And as he runs he falls through the hole, the black hole – but not into oblivion, into remembering, sweet remembering. He can’t give up on her if he wishes to stay strong.

The impulse is there, but she’s too weak to reach out for the glass and pour herself one more drink to open a hole in her brain through which she could climb the mountain of her duvet and find shelter in its cave.

She´s too exhausted to sleep.


She’s also too exhausted to undress and shed that day once again from the system of her sanity.

Therefore she opens the door and is spilt like dry beans onto the road of a moonless night.

Where are her car keys?


Sometimes he takes them away, hides them from her. But not tonight. With quickened pulse and foot on the accelerator, she’s heading for her favourite watering hole in the city, pretty far away. The delay non-withstanding, she´s also heading for the break of day that´ll split her in two and make her grow weaker still.

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