And sometimes, somewhere in between recovering from the last orgasm, still feeling his arms on your body and glancing at him, you realize you want more.
Because when there’s you, His Issues, Him and Your Issues in between kisses, things get fogged up pretty quickly. You don’t maneuver as effortlessly with his expectations or lack thereof weighing you down and he doesn’t know how to touch you in such a way that he doesn’t remind you of your ex.
Sometimes you stop. You talk, you may even laugh and you know it’s bad because people who make you laugh always end up looking extra pretty to you. He may kiss your ankle before pleasuring you and it’s those things that will make you smile and panic inside. Because the nice ones are the worst. They’re difficult to see as objects.
And isn’t this what it’s all about? Separating from each other? I can see you naked, lay next to you, kiss you when I please and grip your body over mine as we find a rhythm but..never ask how you are. And it’s not that I don’t care it’s just that, I care more for my already cracked heart that has nothing to do with you and I want to keep it that way.
I don’t want to remember your silhouette in detail nor do I want to wonder where you go and if you do what you do here, there, although I know you do and I never get mad because that’s the best way to deal with this, with you, and with myself. You laugh at everything and I learn how to too. I know the areas of my Life you touch and none of them are important to me.
I am here because I am reckless. I am a virus and unlike others I manage to enter and stay, maybe because you like the chaos that is This, and I, maybe because you too are looking for someone who will make you feel the familiar sting of half felt rejection that your father got you accustomed to and maybe because we are both trying to see how dead inside we truly are.
But I’m slipping. And I pray you keep on cumming and going. Coming and going.
I pray we both know how to move forward.
And yet I know we don’t.
But blessed are we who can hold up masks and create facades that only crack at witching hours.
Blessed are we who make our curses look beautiful.