Twohundredfortyseven, nine years and stuck space-bars not with standing, I love you: still, ever, more. Does he write for me, did he write for me, will he write for me, will he live for me, not give up for me, nor on me? The selfish things wondered by selfish girls. She had 99 problems but life ain't one and I am coming to believe time spent in service really is some measure of better. And I love their rituals, surprising singsongy suggestions; just not their god, gods, god's vision, visions of sacrificed sons, saints, martyrs, motherfuckers all, just like how he likes porn but hates its politics. Better to be a pervert than a hypocrite, and all those other things you say that make me love your brain more. And all those things you do, like, roll over, slut! roll over, slut! and I'm also coming to believe that roll overs make it all possible, possibly. What would I do without you?
Besides ache for tight thighs that ache with sex and friction and overextension, flexing toes, putting your dick in anywhere, any which way, whenever, this rain makes me: neither happy nor sad. How to write of confusion, or a prescient knowing, of the personal apocalypses that come/are coming erryday. The only thing I want to bury myself in is you. I'm not ready to be washed away again, again.
Coalesce, thoughts, or convalesce if you must, but I really need you to work here, now, to stop or (not and) start this flow of verbal tears, screams, rage and lust. Words are always nothing. Touch is always everything. Periods are the worst! Beach is the best; remedy, for all our minor, major cuts and scrapes: saltwater and sun. The smell of the ocean is a, what's that phrase, I know you know it, my favorite jeopardy partner, my favorite crossword partner, my favorite outdoors partner, my favorite indoors partner, my favorite fucking partner, my favorite fuck, my favorite favorite.
I just want to feel your hand on the small of my back, so I know that everything is okay for a moment, for a moment. Think happy thoughts. And go to a doctor. And love me forever. Because crying makes me cough. Whatever that means.
Do you recognize that stretch of beach up there? We tucked back in this spot once, smoked a j, made beach towel curtains and fucked before leaving town. Or that night we found that weird thing that we took pictures of and with? Or that day we fucked in the rain under the bridge? When the cops lit us up while I was blowing you on the deck? Or that time it was nothing but trees rushing out the mouth? Or the moonless night we saw that car race the high tide right up on the dirty bluff road? And the many, many storms? And stars, and stars and stars and stars and golden hut tub showers? Or everything? One time, I was waiting for you to come fuck me in that front bedroom and I laid very still and tried to memorize what I was seeing, succeeded only in searing what I was feeling. I want to never forget anything, except the things worth forgetting. But that is nothing with you.
