BITTER SWEET LOVE
copyright © 2016 by Michael Faudet. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews.
Andrews McMeel Publishing
a division of Andrews McMeel Universal
1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, Missouri 64106
www.andrewsmcmeel.com
www.michaelfaudet.com
ISBN: 978-1-4494-8373-9
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016949279
The Fell Types are digitally reproduced by Igino Marini.
www.iginomarini.com
Cover art by Tinca Veerman
www.tincaveerman.com
Editor: Patty Rice
Art Director: Julie Barnes
Production Manager: Cliff Koehler
Production Editor: Erika Kuster
Ebook Developer: Kristen Minter
ATTENTION: SCHOOLS AND BUSINESSES
Andrews McMeel books are available at quantity discounts with bulk purchase for educational, business, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail the Andrews McMeel Publishing Special Sales Department: [email protected].
Sharing your thoughts can help us improve our ebooks.
We would appreciate your feedback. Thank you!
[email protected]
For Lang,
I could watch a million sunrises and still never see one quite as beautiful as your eyes slowly opening in the morning.
Introduction
When I wrote my first book, Dirty Pretty Things, I found myself lost in a strange little world of my own making. Exploring the many facets of love and relationships, inspired by life experiences, nature, art, and often a bottle of vodka.
Like a well-constructed martini, the words seemed to flow effortlessly—gently stirred with each stroke of the pen.
And when the last sentence was written, I suddenly realized I had only just begun.
Bitter Sweet Love is a new departure point. A freshly dug rabbit hole to fall down once again, to a place where the sun refuses to set.
It is a book that continues to uncover the intricacies of love in poetry, prose, quotes, and short stories.
I like to think of it as an admission ticket to a beautiful but dangerous carnival ride.
One that races precariously along rusty rails which could snap at any moment.
I hope you enjoy the trip.
—Michael xo
Can You Remember?
I think you loved me,
the night we drank
Turkish coffees,
our fingers woven
tighter than two
hands held,
by lovers dangling
on a precipice
of a cliff.
Can you remember
the moment
our fingers let go?
The stars rushing
backward,
no hope left
below.
Chasing Love
When chasing love
at any cost—
The pathways meet
but seldom cross.
I dream of dreams—
Once dreamt,
now lost.
How sunshine steals
from autumn frost.
Wonderfully Right
I certainly know right from wrong, she said, but the trouble is, whenever I feel your hands unclipping my bra—wrong suddenly feels wonderfully right.
The Letter
Your words stirred something deep inside me, like a vodka martini sipped with thirsty lips—my body intoxicated by the very suggestion of you.
I read the letter again.
My hand between willing legs, writing a reply in cursive circles.
Upon pretty pink paper unfolded.
The Northern Lights
She was like the northern lights on a cloudless night. Walking toward me, leaving a trail of dark footsteps on the silvery sand. The waves breaking gently behind her, white foamy fingers reaching out and caressing her ankles with swirling salty kisses. Beads of glistening water clinging to her naked body, dusty pink nipples hard, skin ghostly pale, a single strand of wet black hair curled like a comma across her blushing cheeks.
—
“I want you to fuck me,” she whispered. “It is far too beautiful an evening to make love.”
Proximity
We joined the dots
from A to B,
the line we drew
from you to me,
traced empty shores
across the sea,
over mountain top,
past forest tree,
along the roads
and walking tracks,
all bridges burned,
no looking back,
for the love
we have,
no gate can stop,
no barking dog
or bolted lock,
for what is real
is meant to be,
when two hearts
beat—
in proximity.
Sleepwalking
Lucy pulled up the creaky wooden blinds and peered out the rain-streaked windows.
It was a strange kind of morning.
Wispy gray clouds hung low over the old abandoned church. A sprinkling of watery sunshine touched the treetops of a little park across the road, and in the distance a gorgeous rainbow held the city rooftops in one hand and sparkling sea in the other.
She caught a casual glimpse of herself reflected in the glass.
Strands of straw-colored hair falling across her face, tickling her lips and almost hiding her sleepwalking eyes.
A trembling hand reached into the pocket of the heavy white dressing gown, searching for the cigarette she had long given up.
“Old habits die hard and new ones take their place . . .”
Something her shrink had told her at their last session.
She popped the pill into her mouth and walked over to the kitchen bench. Turned on the cold water tap and leaned her head over the sink.
It would be a while before the Ambien kicked in and heavy legs walked her slowly back to bed.
Just enough time to flip open the laptop, quickly check some e-mails, scroll through Tumblr, or maybe watch some Hentai clips and masturbate.
Flopping onto the couch, Lucy switched on the Mac and waited for the all-too-familiar windows to open.
A couple of cute cats, One Direction gif, a woman in pigtails being roughly spanked, and a F. Scott Fitzgerald quote rolled up across the dashboard.
Her fingers came to life, playing a concerto of hearts and reblog clicks, scrolling endlessly past image after image, until she stopped on a video that caught her twitching eye.
It was a homemade porn clip.
A girl in a yellow bikini was slumped down in a passenger seat of a car, baseball cap pulled down over her face. She was furiously rubbing herself, moaning, while the driver, a male arm to be precise, reached over and slid his hand under her top.
Lucy watched and slid a hand beneath her dressing gown.
The girl in the clip pulled her bikini bottom to one side, exposing her shaved pussy and started to slide her fingers in and out. Her head leaned back into the tan leather seat as she started to moan softly.
The familiar tingling and wetness started to tease and tantalize Lucy.
She quickly closed the laptop with one hand while the other hand kept busy. Closing her eyes, she lay down on her back, spreading her long legs a little, kicking a pillow off the couch.
Her mind slipped backward into a world of fleeting fa
ntasies.
A shadowy figure pushed her knees apart and pressed his lips between her legs. While another stood over her, holding his hard cock to her mouth, pushing it in, fucking her open lips.
She cried out as the orgasm hit hard and fast.
Making her sit upright, fingers rubbing her swollen clit, hanging on to the last ripples of spasming pleasure that ran wild through her tense body.
Minutes passed before she could even begin to move.
When she did, each step took its toll, as heavy legs waded through the quicksand of Ambien-induced stupor.
The dressing gown fell silently to the floor, forming a puddle of white on the purple carpet.
Lucy leaned against the windowpane, eyelids heavy, opening and shutting like the graffiti-covered roller doors of a liquor store in a bad neighborhood.
It had stopped raining, and the rainbow was a faded memory lost to bright sunshine.
She could feel the warmth of the glass pressed up against her naked body. It felt comforting. Like a hug from a long-lost lover or a cat curled up under the covers of a bed.
“Old habits die hard and new ones take their place . . .”
The words did a slow waltz, around and around the empty dance floor, as the darkness descended deep inside her head.
Lucy tumbled down the rabbit hole again.
Where wonderland ceased to exist.
—
“Will you miss me when I’m gone?” he said.
“I will miss me,” she replied.
Regret
A memory picked
from a flower wilted,
its petals faded
all color crushed.
How can I forget
such fragrant perfume?
The lingering regret
of a love long lost.
Wonderfully Lost
We slowly melted into a lazy summer of gentle sea breezes and singing trees. Each languid day rolling into the next like the curling waves caressing the silent sands. Our thirsty kisses sipping softly on wine-tainted lips as we fell quietly into each other’s open arms.
Wonderfully lost and hopelessly in love.
There Was a Time
There was a time, not too long ago, when I spent my evenings chasing shooting stars with unanswered wishes.
My life spent curled up in an unmade bed.
Where dreams slept and reality awoke with each new morning.
These were the halcyon days of order found within the chaos of the seemingly unknown.
Each little metaphoric box ticked.
Every screaming kettle heard.
A cup of peppermint tea poured for one.
—
Now I live in a world of untied shoelaces, messy hair, and melting ice cream.
And all I can think about is you.
A Broken Heart
She stole my words
I wrote with lips,
a broken heart
is seldom missed,
by those who write
another’s name,
upon the lips
I loved—
in vain.
Eyes Closed
Picking up the pieces of a broken relationship is like gathering up shards of glass with bare hands and eyes closed.
A Willow Weeps
A willow weeps
its tears run green,
upon pages turned
by rippling lake
and drowning weeds.
A hooting owl
in waving trees,
a crying moon
brought to
its knees.
In falling leaves,
an autumn spent,
the love we found
it came
and went.
All parting words
in darkness
said,
no rising sun
can write anew—
For what is lost,
a willow weeps.
Insomnia
I splashed the cold water across my face, the tap left running, my reflection in the mirror coming back to haunt me at 3 a.m.
The dark circles around my eyes had become angry whirlpools, pulling my sanity down into an abyss of utter exhaustion. A pale ghost sleepwalking to oblivion, each step sinking ever deeper into quicksand.
I had long given up counting sheep. The paddock was empty, the gate wide open, a lonely field where the sun refused to set.
I turned off the tap and watched the water drain from the sink, a fitting metaphor for what my life had become, before stumbling back to the meaningless sanctuary of an open MacBook Air that sat on a dusty kitchen table, next to a half-empty vodka bottle and a framed photograph of you.
Tired words tapped with yawning fingers, meaningless sentences typed one after the other, overwhelming me like unstoppable waves from a devastating tsunami.
No autocorrect could shake the shackles of my melancholia, fix the unfixable, or change the ending of this sad little story.
I opened the bottle and swallowed the inevitable sting of hopelessness.
Your beautiful smile, captured in the photograph, a constant reminder of an intoxicating love that once upon a time flowed endlessly, filling to the brim my now-empty heart.
Do you remember the afternoon we spent throwing paper planes off the cliff?
Folded love letters to each other, picked up by the wind, spiraling in the summer breeze, lost in a fleeting moment of dazzling sunlight.
The warmth of your lips pressed up against my neck.
My fingers running through your hair.
A hint of lavender, the slow drone of an airplane flying away in the distance, waves crashing onto the shore, ever silent, like a white carpet rolling onto the black sand below.
I wish I could forget it all.
Erase the past in an instant, hit the delete key, and open a new page.
Anything to escape the relentless surge of a miserable tide that swept me away each morning, only to drown me in sorrow come nightfall.
If only I could sleep.
Find solace in the darkness, collapse into a world of distant dreams and pitch my tent.
On that cliff top of singing flowers and lazy bumblebees.
Throwing paper planes forever.
Our Autumn Came
Our autumn came
in coffee cups,
from clouds of white
to swirling brown,
all wrinkly leaf,
on muddy ground,
the sugary sweet,
sipped and stirred,
with silver spoon
and parting words,
a butter knife
on buttered toast,
a morning mourned
with marmalade.
No fond farewell
in silence made,
just falling tears
in fallen rain,
all sunshine gone
no warmth remains,
in empty cups,
our autumn came.
Her Kisses
Her kisses were the wings of butterflies, beating softly upon lips of crushed petals—the perfume of love.
A Snowflake Falls
A snowflake falls,
a story told,
its melting words
were mine to hold,
I thought of you,
when hands
were held,
two lovers lost
to time
it tells.
Swans in the Park
It had been a most peculiar evening.
Like riding a roller coaster in some broken-down carnival, never really knowing whether the rusty rails would snap at any given moment.
Vodka had helped smooth the ride.
Making some weird sense of it all, but ignoring the insanity of the girl that danced in her underwear to old Roxy Music songs played on a dusty turntable.
A half-smoked joint in one hand and a pair of dressmaker’s scissors in the other.
We never made it to the bedroom.
Sassy had other ideas. Which involved black masking tape, a dining room table, and a vibrator shaped like a serpent.
“Think of it as a warm up,” she said, wrists bound and legs spread across the hard wood.
Her moans becoming one piercing scream when the orgasm hit.
Followed by desperate pleas from pretty lips to fuck her senseless.
—
Bitter Sweet Love (Michael Faudet) Page 1
