Friday, October 9, 2009

You enter me every night. Sometimes throughout the day. Your fingers touch my soul, without leaving a trace. No scratches. No bruises. Your fingers have no nails.

Your nervous habit. Go ‘head, bite ‘em.

Your path, you left unmarked. No visible signs. That’s why no one knows you exist. Inside. Me. & that’s how I like it. Love that last for hours on hours. Deep breathing like Lamaze. I smell your breath, traveling from my ear, to my neck, then on to meet my breath.

I say, “Baby.” You say “Yes.”

It’s my favorite part of our sessions.

My near screaming vocals. You’re exhausted tone. I’m an aficionada of words, and yours are sounding as good as you feel.

No, not yet, open your eyes, don’t miss a beat, stroke, thump. Pound.

My walls.

Bang hard against your walls. You, in one of your exemplified outburst. Profanity then transmits through my tympanic membrane. Every other word distastefully hurled at my cochlea. My ear now throbs to the rhythm of my heart. Or is it the rhythm of my heart that I’m hearing in my ear. Either way you’re too loud. Shh. Can’t you just quiet down.

I now recollect why this never worked when we were kids. I was an ass. You did asshole things. Spoke asshole words.

“Too many damn questions,” he said.

We never really got along and I’m unsure if we do now.

You say I speak from my ovaries. My uterus controls my every thought. My words are like a brain FCUK.

Well guess what.





A terminologically corrupt love affair is what our friendship has boiled down to…

Goodnight, you say.

Sweet dreams, I whisper.

I say, “Baby.” You say “Yes…”

“…Can I hit it in the morning?”

*receiver dangles*