I lie in bed
paralyzed in warmth,
my calves aching from that ninety minute
walk through Louisville.
I lie, in fetal position, wondering about your voice recordings, the ones you send to me every night.
Men don’t seem interesting anymore.
Instead, I dream idly of sex with no one in mind. The act itself, an impulse that I no longer abuse. Instead, I think of your large dark eyes asking me, “What? What are you thinking about?” There is nothing striking but your eyes, and the way your whole face wrinkles when you laugh.
I know a part of me loves you.
I know a part of me feels nothing when you kiss my neck, just the rain from the clouds over us.
If my cold hand could wrap around your wrist, push your fingers into me, maybe I could feel something. The same thing I felt when you said, “I don’t want to wash the taste of you out of my mouth.” That thrill that made me jerk and burn.
We said we would be just friends
After we danced under the willow tree, our
Arms flapping, our
But never have I said words of love as I thrust into them.
Never has my lover been so afraid of God that he lost his desire in me.
To be away from you
To be with you but not in you
Is a half-life. To not feel your lips pressing on me, your angular hips against my soft flesh, is blasphemy.