Cannot seem to play along. Let this pass. The day and the next. But a year- another year- I’m 33 –I’m 43 –I’m 53. Already I’ve overextended my inelastic imagination. Do not think in these terms. Let this pass. Let these drop. Wipe them. Collect, crumple, fling behind my back. I can do this. There is nothing wrong with me. Nothing. Nothing to examine. No do-over. I can. I am living one second, I know it all, love like a tail-biting benzene snake wringing my waist, my thoughts, my world. Collapses in like dual light- body and mind- wave and particle. Satisfied. I will do this. Passes too though. Too quickly. So do not think at all. Just live it. Stop.
Want to be filthy and sweet and untrammelled. Fettered only to another’s desire. If I part my legs just right, you finger my lips and flare them just right, and then you place your pink tongue and lick just right, maybe I will feel this. But I refuse to turn to you or you or you for this. Not with this. I will come to you desperate and needing and overstrung, yes. But not with this. Not like this. Turn away.
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I can do this. There is nothing wrong with me. Nothing. Nothing to examine. No do-over. I can. I am living one second, I know it all, love like a tail-biting benzene snake wringing my waist, my thoughts, my world.
Not with this.
You make my heart ache. I see again my own self too. Look away: I do, when it's me, but I can't help looking at you.
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