I sneaked into your room after your roommate had long since gone to sleep. You kissed me and told me I tasted like clove and tequila. My fingers found the buttons of your shirt first and you trace the stitching on the thighs of my jeans. I make you laugh, and you notice my erection and pull down a stubborn zipper.
Z z z z z r r r t
“Not on the bed, it makes too much noise. I don’t want anyone to hear us”
Across the floor we stretched our bodies. Under the dim light of your room, a two bulb fixture missing one, I gaze up at a ceiling of many imagined glossy galaxies. I am an insignificant constellation but I want you to be my satellite.
“I hope you make me cry” you whisper, leaning forward to cup my reaction with your soft pinkened mouth. To keep me silent and anchored, you don’t ask me what I am thinking, You want to swandive into instinct, into discovery, into something like splendor. But so much bigger. So much better.
We undressed together and it was the first time, that night, the first time hands softer and more eager than your own had touched you, and the first time all life lived up until that point was a pithy memory by comparison; timid sparks pitted up against the lightning in your gut; adamant and mammoth, a primeval suffocating of everything you’ve ever experienced prior to me.
“Hold me down when you do it” you spoke in an air where this shared bed is set for a feast of drowsy meals. I realized your smile. I know you are mine. Like fluid. Like echoes and explosions in a surprised audience. It is how you look when I taste your secrets, eyes closed like a child in a thunderstorm, intimidated by forces beyond your control. I become blissfully aware that you love no other, for I am here, your love for me has extinguished every fire I’ve ever set in my life.
I am your clever arsonist.
You are my neuralgic pins and needles, dusking and purpling my wrists with your nervous clutch. You might be exhausted, maybe, but you’re still young and symmetrical and you let me fuck you from behind and erase all the others who left your skin unautographed. The slope of your back has all the answers I will ever need. I want to push inside of you in my childhood bedroom. I want to fuck you on top of my flimsy racecar bed with the drawers on either side. I will never be able to face my father again. I’ll be erased from the family tree.
You lick my wounds, tattoos, tired jaws, and sweat. Find angles to sharpen, edges to blunt. You alter the tone of my scream and my laugh, end sentences before you get to “love”
You bite me hard enough to break through to my vitae. Beg me to cum into you from above, let me watch your tiger eyes go death-dark black.
This was the last time.
Got drunk one night and fucked my ex and told you about it out of guilt, out of obligation and perhaps subconsciously I just wanted to push you away. I wept and you kissed me. Your weakness made me angry. Before we had last kissed goodbye, you pulled my hair without asking. You pushed me onto the ground and kicked dirt in my face, and mouth, and eyes, and all over my body intending that I never be found.
“I hope the world buries you alive, Houdini”
And now that you’re gone I’m running out of options. No matter how hard I wish, this attic will never clean itself. I am so disembodied by these small spaces that I give up, remember your laughter, kneel in darkness and cry.
Remember the heart of me…remember what you came looking for. Won’t you give it a try?
I just wanted us both to forget and be born again. I knew that would never happen so…
(I’ve lost control over the narrative – uh oh.)
Your leaving me was more like death than death I’ve ever known. When last we were face to face, I was embarrassed to show you the condition of my skin without makeup. And I gave you a big hug. And as much as you put your arms around me, I felt that you were only treating the symptoms.
Driving home, I marveled at how terribly I cried. I’ve kept your letters and gifts for so long now sometimes thinking your essence of love still lingers with them, but you’ve merely become a recollection whispered in the fading daylight of summer. You became a distant frigid stranger who it vaguely felt as though I once knew or shared a connection with at all.
In my book-lined cave I am awake in my unsatisfactory bed, waiting for the dark air to swallow me whole. I am there, and I am every place your love has led me, and the sound and the weight of those places slice me in half, like being caught under the wheels of a speeding train.
Years later, both much older now – we rarely talk. You’re a stranger to me, and there’s a good reason for that. Sometimes I forget you’re closer than I want you to be. I pause. Avoid the ruins. No, I’m not hiding, there just isn’t anything else to vaccinate or keep alive. Tried to convince myself that the only thing I honestly liked about you was when you left me alone. I lied.