routine by patrik wijkstrom	I love her. She loves me. And then we kiss. And she bites my tongue and tears it out of my mouth. And I bite her ear and tear it apart. And we both feel the warm blood running down our throats. We do this often. Nothing much remains of me, or her. Pieces of us lie around the house. An arm here, a leg there. Sometimes our friends come over and pick up the pieces and throw them in the wastebaskets. Our friends don't stay for very long. Maybe they're tired of cleaning up. Often, late at night, I creep out of the chamber, out of the warm and loving bed and go downstairs, find a bone and start gnawing. I don't know anymore if it is mine or hers. But I hear her gnawing too. Then we go to bed again, wake up and don't mention anything about the night before. They say that it is normal not to talk after a while. That you have come to know each other so well, that most communication goes without saying. Routine. They say all love is based on routine. That after some time, ordinary events take over to make life stable again. Perhaps less exciting than being in love, the stage when one is always in a stage of disbelief. Where each moment is uncertainty, where hopes linger in the despair. But then you reach a stage where the belief is strong that she loves you. And then you're happy and safe. But still, still something begins to gnaw at you. Maybe you could get more. Somewhere else, in some other embrace. And then you see her gnawing too, uncertain.
copyright patrik wijkstrom 1996