Sex and Brocolli
Sitting cross legged on a sweat soaked comforter,
we became lost as we delved deeper into
intimacy that exists in warm embraces
and the exchanging of bodily fluids.
We dug deeper into one another
like we were digging through the skin of our shared
naked bodies looking for versions of ourselves
that were hiding from their sins. How intimate.
An hour before, I was on top of you
and you were asking me to cum on your pussy.
When you asked the first time, we had been fucking
for what felt like an eternity. I was
fighting, trying not to succumb to a cramp
that was working its way from my knee to my ass.
Meanwhile, I saw the movement of your body show
impatience instead of enthusiasm.
Naked and interlocked with one another, the
well of intimacy was running dry despite
the sweat dripping off of my skin and onto
yours. It wouldn’t be much longer until there was
no intimacy left in my flailing body.
We put our clothes on immediately after.
It was always that way, the love making without
the love. The ending of the exploration was
always premature. A scar on your body could
be seen, touched and tasted but when the lights came on,
it was just a scar. At least, it was until it
wasn’t. Because when we peeled the wet comforter
off of the bed and sat down on the damp bed sheet,
all the secrets we tried to fuck out of each
other started to crawl out all on their own.
In between bites of broccoli pizza we took
turns reintroducing ourselves to each other,
holding each other in verbal embraces,
finding comfortable vulnerability.
Why did we choose broccoli? We didn’t. You did.
And that small, insignificant decision
became intimate. Memories melted away,
puddling together like sweat off our bodies.
Heads of broccoli were crushed in between your teeth
right next to my individuality.
The quietness that followed was one that was earned.
The symphony of lust that preceded it
was a thing of the past. It ended just like
our meal and the conversations about
why we are the way we are, dreaming of love
while counting sheep with unrequited interest.
For every creak of the metal bed frame
there was a beat, a suspension of our minds
in which we did not welcome one another.
This was our reward for intertwining.
This One is Yours
The first time I went over,
she brought out a small wooden box.
And when she opened it,
I saw it was full of little strips of paper.
We took turns unfolding them, revealing the handwritten questions in each of them.
What’s your worst fear?
Probably the dark because this one time at my cousins house…
What do you want most in life?
I just want to be happy. Last year I went through this depressive episode and…
What’s your favorite food?
My mom used to make this milanesa that…
We took turns asking questions that
should have had simple answers but instead
were answered with stories.
Every story attached itself to the slip of paper
that prompted it, and when we were done
I’d shove those pieces of paper in my pockets.
Pockets full of paper,
Yours, mine, ours.
Sometimes when I pull them out now,
I can’t tell which are yours and which are mine.
Massive, hungry, all-consuming.
A world in need of being tamed
while masquerading as untamable.
you feel the challenge of taming the world
thrust upon you.
Never realizing that
the world is big,
but you are bigger.
The world does it’s best
to keep you from knowing this.
When you look in the mirror,
it tells you a story of inadequacy
in which you are the main character.
This story is fiction.
you have stared into the abyss
and the abyss has stared back.
It is scared.
Scared of your potential.
Because the world,
as big as it is,
has a beginning and an end.
I taste blood.
I don’t know if it’s theirs or
Maybe I bit their lip
Maybe I need to
take it easy.
I make love
with a gentleness akin
to whispering the word
I fuck like
I fuck like
It’s not pleasant
for either of us.
She always used to tell me
how great I was doing.
but that was when we were fucking
and in love.
When we were making love.
This isn’t even
This is someone else
who fucks in the dark
they can’t stand the sight of me.
It’s probably not that.
They like me.
They don’t love me
but they like me.
They know I mean well,
that I’m not a
maniac or manic.
They know that I’m just a guy
fucking for the first time
after years of making love.
The Night Before, The Morning After
…The night before was much like the morning after, tainted in your apathy You sat on top of me and looked down while explaining exactly why you could never fall in love with me I listened intently because that was what I would tend to do Grab and hold close the details of the story I would re-tell in my head after you left The night wasn’t going the way I’d imagine anyone would plan out for themselves but I held your words regardless, because even the stories about love that are undernourished and hope starved are stories worth being told Something about my head, I swear there’s something wrong with it because those are my favorite stories So when you said
I shouldn’t have stayed here
I regret it
I clung to all 10 syllables, knowing full well they would define not just that moment, but also invade the moments of quiet loneliness in the days that followed The night before was much like the morning after because the night before was the morning after…
Articulating the End
I write in my head because I’m driving
on Ocean Ave in Santa Monica.
What a fitting end to this story;
We held each other for the first time here.
While you were sleeping, I sat at the desk
in our room becoming a poet.
I wrote poems about bugs in your hair
that you would read off of postcards later.
But that morning, I whispered them to you;
I whispered softly, waking you gently.
That was also when I started to wake.
I am writing because I’m still dreaming.
For breakfast, I was your Huckleberry.
For lunch, we ate hamburgers in your car.
In your car, you did nothing but miss him;
In your car, I did nothing but miss her.
How did we think this was going to work?
Secret is, neither of us thought it would.
We talked, in between bites, about how our
friends weren’t going to know anything.
In some cases, people end up happy.
In some cases, people go up in smoke.
I am writing because I smell the smoke.
After that, we held hands at the swap-meet.
Strands of hair fell like ribbons on your face
that made my mind beg my eyes, look at her.
Each look at you was greedy but
we weren’t there to look at each other.
I was looking for a car radio.
You were looking for Mexican earrings.
Isle by isle, we searched together.
That night, we didn’t feel like a secret;
We didn’t feel we belonged somewhere else.
I am writing because I don’t belong.
I remember your pain, remember it
like chocolate; I always hated it.
We did our best to numb each other.
I drove for an hour, you drove for an
hour just so we wouldn’t sleep alone.
I would fidget and keep you up all night;
You would say mean shit and keep me up too.
One morning, you woke up and made breakfast
and I wrote letters for you in my head.
This is what those letters might have looked like.
I am writing because I love you.
I am writing because every thought
before this one tried to get in the way.
I am writing because the only way
to say this is proofread and edited.
I am writing because a part of me
hopes that you’ll never have time to read it.
I am writing because you care about
the little things, even when they’re ending.
I am writing this to articulate that end.