The fluidity suffers, the young chap glides by (orange lotus), now I wander. Shall I digress? How dare I...I never...for shame!
A lipid lid black at the hairline, drowsy as a sullen set of poppy leaves, trickling, lets a fluttering, extra fleeting thought run (You'd better go catch it!). The coarseness of his hair is telling, it sands down the rough air around him with every disjointed thrashing, every false set of harsh words dribbled out his lips (He often unconsciously outbursts into fire). He takes me against his legs, he wants me on my back. All the way through the gritty gray light I watch his skin pour over the muscles built by terrific work, for which I touch, for which my fingers work. He sang out in his sleep one of those nights, maniacally pounding clenched fists, fighting the springs in my mattress. I clawed at his bare chest, though tenderly spoke to his furrowed brow, his down turned lips. A drawing memory slithered twice around my ear, "I love your nails," in a smoke burned throat up came these words as hushed as they were written. So my heart reluctantly swelled. I turned from him and lovingly nursed the wound he had burned into the back of my neck, soft, as to apply anti-aging though time never did stop. Sleepless, heavy lidded moments drudged on. Eyes rolling, most especially in a furious way, I think of my next step.