This blindfold I willingly put on,
And the rationalizations I made for needing it.
I built a time machine
But it seems so wasteful.
All those memories...
So I'll give you first pick
Of the new ones.
I owe you.
and my teeth were falling out.
I remembered how that only happens in my dreams.
I held my bloody mouth together with my hands in front of the mirror.
My eyes were still my eyes.
I began to count back from ten,
telling myself to wake up.
My shirt billowed out around me in slow motion seven...
And everything began to rise up into the air three...
I'm awake now but the world is still ending.
while dinosaurs only make me feel contemplative
your dark stairwell boomerangs me back to the street
and it feels like being hooked off the stage amidst catcalls
i have the key but not the authority
why do you have that anatomically correct doll of me?
why is it placed with such specificity in that proportionally representative model of my home?
reading your mom's diary wasn't as cathartic as i thought it might be
so i suggest a new approach
one where we paint each other's toenails while disagreeing about things like
entropy and singularity (both gravitational and technological)
and quietly get down to the hearts of some matters
“Tell me the secret of your passion,” he requested, with a smile in his eyes that spoke of his enthusiasm for the answer to come.
“Orgasms and transcendental happiness through food preparation”, she replied without hesitation.
He raised his eyebrows slightly and grinned, his jaw line breaking her heart in the process. She wanted desperately to lick his teeth.
“I heard you wrote the book on that,” he said.
“I am the book on that,” she replied and pulled him close enough to see the dark starburst in his chocolate brown eyes.
“Read me,” she whispered. “Riffle through my pages and write little notes of your thoughts in the margins of my text.”
It was then that he delicately eased his fingers through the paper of her, enjoying not only the text, but the texture beneath his skin...tracing small patterns along the page, tasting her work as he indulged in his own.
She sighed deeply and spread her pages open to his delicate fingering, giving up her secret recipes and her hidden patterns to his unabashed and hungry exploration.
His breath came quicker and, intoxicated by the stimulation, he ventured deeper within her volume, greedily consuming every drop that she offered, her lessons becoming cerebral as a feast for every sense.
Murmuring mouth-watering theories of quantum entrées and loving haikus describing sweet endings into the ears of his fingertips, her pages folded themselves into origami cranes that cried out descriptions of beauty and consumption.
Her spine began to contract and it was there, in his context, that she found a new and utterly eclipsing concoction; one consisting of salty cream, sweet juices, mysterious fruit, and chocolate velvet.
From that moment on, her mouth would never want for anything else.
I wake so you can sleep.
It’s my turn on watch and I must remain vigilant.
For what, I’m not sure.
Moans and sighs that don’t penetrate the soul,
hearts that won’t, or can’t, rapture,
all the souls that have your face and your eyes and are not heard?
Can I face what’s on its way?
Can’t stop loving.
I won’t stop now, what I’m doing.