The laughter as we tumble into awareness. The first inhale when we lean back for a moment’s rest. The widening of our eyes as we come into focus. The sharp gasps as we lose ourselves into each other. The rush of our panting as we collide. The droop of our eyelids as we slip out of focus. The smiles we save for just these occasions.
The way people talk about 50 Shades of Gray like some remote, strange concept to them.
I thought it was desperately vanilla at many points.
The marks you left are already fading, faint yellow traces of our clutching and writhing. As I step into the shower, the scent of you washes down my face and I inhale the very last bit of you before it can be replaced with distance. I smile as I discover little hairs and crumbles of tobacco stuck to my skin like our final clinging embraces and watch them swirl down the drain and away. Salty tears splash on my breasts as I lean against the tiled wall and wish you were there behind me. I feel silly for feeling so alone, for being so damnably sentimental over everything about you, but I clutch my memories of you because I know the time between us is almost more than I can bear. But bear them I will with a brave face, waiting as patiently as I can to bathe in your touches once more.
I write about sex as if it’s something beautiful, but it’s not. It’s two bodies smashing together, doused in sweat and unmet expectations. There is nothing beautiful about lying under someone who is rocking back and forth to some foreign beat as you dig and claw into their flesh to try to bring them back to your plane of existence. No poetry is written in the sharp cries that untrained ears would call throes of misery. Minds entangled in sex are not glorifying the person creating what pleasure may be painted on synapses—those minds are fogged in the glitter and flashes of chaotic nothingness. Two bodies do not climax together, wrapped in sweet bliss or sonnets of yore. Bodies lurch and arch and beg as throats croak commands and lies.
my lips are buzzing
tingling with the tension
of faded muscle memory
aching to once more
feel fingertips and feverish
pressing and parting
and the desperate delighted
hum of want
Every time I read something that I’ve written,
it’s like viewing a
of all the things I’ve managed to stifle,
the little dust bunnies of concern
that I’ve hidden in skeleton-filled pantries.
I find myself recounting some
that I’ve painted in vague groans,
sweat and saliva
spilled across something smooth and taut.
These phrases build,
panting and undulating
as they slap together in some
and I’m always a beat off.
These thoughtless recountings
are flushed with a pantomime of life,
faces I’ve faked into the camera
to keep the crowd interested.
Even I’m glued to the tv,
in desperation and desire
and I can not wait for my soul to come.