Agapitofagy, the eating of the beloved

by Christos Polydorou

I told him I needed to be alone, to write. Truth is the only defiance to the lie we could otherwise let life be. But I have not been alone. Instead, I wander in London and gaze upon it as though I am one of its protectors, like a police officor, or a fireman. London, like all major cities, is defiant. Mostly “London” becomes an excuse for anything failing in the lives of anyone living in it. It has been nearly three years since I held your hand over the Sargasso sea. I hope you remember forever how we soared like figures of Anthony Gormley with a happiness you deserved. Our love ended in the opposite of love, neglect. It almost felt like a race in the end. The fights escalated out of control. I hated how you intellectually invaded my thinking space, both reasons which seem so nonsensical to me now. My thoughts are now half-lit winged creatures or pests darting past often in the corner of my eye. I should have long suspected what I have long rejected, that I am not the kind of artist who can make art alone. I am the kind of sly, second rate writer, superficial, ultimately a capitalist parasite. He, an actual art object, did not object to my lesser gifts, he loved my body, my lips, my chest and arms. When he kissed me I could sense in him a shift akin to hunger.

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