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You'll never read this.
That's what makes it
so easy to write.
Dude sometimes I rub my eyes
and it feels so ******* good
that I just can't stop.
Both eyes at once,
knuckles just twisting away.

I can drive with my knees,
can you do that?
It's difficult with my stick-shift
but I've gotten pretty good.









Anyway, I've been getting into
a lot of car accidents lately.
She reaches behind her
and spreads everything,
her head presses into the comforter.
Duvet? Comforter? It's argyle,
whatever you wanna call it.
Green and light teal, the colors
of the blanket and pillows
match the curtains
hanging in the unfocused
background.
I turn the volume down
as she moans through
the initial insertion.
That's my favorite part.
The rhythmic slapping
of flesh coming together
begins like the beat of
some primal, animalistic drum.
I notice the furnishings are
seldom, a single dresser
with a large mirror
is the only thing I can see.
It has a light finish on it.
Interesting.
I would've gone with a dark walnut,
or maybe a mahogany.
Is dark wood furniture out of style?
I look around my room,
at the dark stained wood desk
that my computer sits on.
My **** isn't even hard anymore.
*** slowly dribbles out as I finish,
mostly unsatisfied.
Unsatisfied with my paltry velocity,
and further unsatisfied with my
terrible sense of interior decoration.
Oh well, I'll go again in an hour.
Maybe I'll get some ideas
for my kitchen.
I was eighteen
when Henry was born.
I was mostly gone back then.

Mom used to say
it's like she has two only children.

I still say that when people ask.

He's getting older
and I'm further now
than I've ever been.


I would say that he
thinks about me
less and less
these days,
but maybe that's okay.
Maybe that's for the best anyway.


...I bet my dad has had that same thought.

"Maybe it's for the best."
"Maybe that's okay."

Maybe not, I don't know.. but
it makes me feel better
imagining that he has.


Gotta call Henry.
I don’t know if I’m that good at convincing my loved ones that I’m ok.
Or if they simply don’t care as much as they say they do.
The water laps eagerly at the stony bank,
the sun peeks her rays around a passing cloud.
My skin drinks deeply of both,
pruned toes and tanned chest.
The kayak gently bobs
in the shallow wake from the breeze.
Mithrandir falls below Moria,
I put down the book and reach
for a beer.
The resident swan has been paddling
little laps at a safe distance from me.
I catch him looking at me
side-eyed, flipping his head back and forth.
I make kissy sounds and hold my hand out,
he comes over to see if I have any bread for him.

It's nice here. Little fish pick dead skin from my legs.
It's nice here. My shoulders don't get sore from paddling anymore.
It's nice here.
I do this almost
every day.
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