as it stands

As it stands, you were but a stain in the twilight. I will recall that tune on the radio, it’s an older mix, and you explained that you lost your virginity to the very same recorded track. Sounds as though the melody itself took a hold of your young thighs, bent upon penetration, but yeah it was only a backdrop of sound upon your complacent coos and sighs. It is a set of concussive beats that will live forever in conjugal infamy; and you even wore the shirt too. What garment you say; the same that was flayed from you in the heat of the moment; was rent from your pert breasts in the moment he took hold of you and planted this tumbling seed. I like to recall.

Our sex was never sacred, all too often just a breaking of the dam. Perhaps like prison sex, other options worn out, not as desperate as consumed. We ate of each other; took our own bodies as communion, liquid blessings. The wine was of grapes pressed with toes, or was it spermicide, ovumcide, bleeding foils of coiled latex. The crucifix, however, atonement with an unequally armed cross made by your legs skyward. Never ashamed; staring into pillows at the humble mercy of the other; driven out of our minds and thus our dedicated organs. Yet love was the word afterward, when we tumble to our respective corners and litigate.

I know the precise fashion of scent that evaporates from your legs when I buffer them in cucumber and avocado lotion. It mingles with the oils of your skin and creates a specific pheromone. I sometimes recall you on my sweat, is that alchemy a feasible consequence of our mingled blood. With a start I sense you close, but it’s just my body remembering.

If you are alive, would you read this and frown? Would you accuse me of pretension because I have memories. Would I be victimizing you because I accuse you somehow of not caring. It’s not you I’m after. I resent the love affair with love. I resent you for conniving me with a dirty word. I detest your taste of promises. Just what could you deliver? A moist preoccupation?

I’m angry that even with the rancid medicine (your lust) this state of existential loss is incurable. The world is dying; we are dying, and all we can manage is to shut our eyes tightly and press to one another’s perspiring bodies. I sense a monster in our ranks, the monster has a name and a blistered grinning face, but it looks too much like the rest of us to discern from the crowd. Remember, we are dying, the word is dying, we are dying.