Whispering in my ears in a memory I never had, because I never heard you but you sounded sad… and the words that you spoke were like singing beneath the sound of your breath and our rhythmic heartbeats, and the song found me dreaming of a man that I follow… lost in the depths unbelieving and hollow.
The day that you caught me without saying much, The way that you haunted me there with a touch that I couldn’t feel save the dream of your sorrow… that came to be real come the gleam of tomorrow.
But you stayed with me singing and circled around… You gave me the bringing and brought me your crown… You lingered behind me when others had left… You whispered and signed me; you loved me to death.
But that’s not the end of our ghostly tale… For you proved a friend and mostly prevailed when I circled round you and found you still smiling… I knew you were there with your stare so beguiling.
There have, in the past been talented enthusiasts, skilled contortionists, beloved boyfriends and romantic one night stands… but after nearly seven years he knows me; knows more about what happens INSIDE ME than anyone who ever previously came that way.
With the others, skilled as they were, there was always something more; something secret transpiring behind my
ORGASM
CLOSED
EYES
But by now he knows everything he needs to know, which he uses to his advantage, bringing me to my oft contemplated conclusion; he looks at me with his insider’s knowledge and he sees inside what others could not.
The path to my bliss is a code which he has broken; a cypher that my body, my outward appearance could never hope to betray, for all the contradictions therein.
He feeds my desperation with erotic confections, candied pornography, titillatingly told and suggestively supplied.
He says all the right things, evocative, provocative things, pressing all the right buttons, pulling all the right strings, whispering nearly impossible encryption, like an incantation (if not a description); such nectarous wines which some find grotesque as my redolent rhymes at last come undressed.
And there, in the harsh light of spray, as frenzied fantasy is glazed with stud honey, he looks deep into my opened eyes and tells me how much he loves me.
Part II: Sweet Dreams
I sleep like the dead.
A door slams and I am awakened; a scenario which has always made me sad.
Returning to consciousness ALONE is shocking.
Previous waking memory involves being nakedly wrapped in another man’s embrace… he was just here.
My deathly slumber has robbed me of too many farewells.
How do men disentangle themselves from me so easily?
Perhaps when lulled into a false sense of security, I fail to cling effectively?
The most satisfying sexual encounters of my life seem predicated on utter destruction come the merciless light of day.
Perhaps that early sweetness
before such raw transformative encounters have bruised us
is life’s deceptive way of getting us all to take our medicine.
Part III: A Bitter Pill to Swallow
He says he’s been crying all morning; that we’ve not planned this day well.
He wishes we were together.
We are frustrated that my thoughtfulness was unknowingly seemingly thoughtless.
Should have asked for headphones. Should have called when doorslam woke me. Should have moved this appointment but the confusing calendar info has only recently been translated and my therapist has no other window so I take the car he scheduled for me to the appointment he scheduled for me and I hope for the best, swallowing any bitterness by remembering last night’s sugar.
