sitting, lying in his bed alone
balanced perfectly in a disinterested, nonexistent relationship
composed purely of ***** calls that i make
every so often
when im in town.
we dont really talk, at most a drink,
before we start ******* in his oversized bunkbed.
we didnt even kiss when he left this morning,
leaving me naked and untouched.

usually we **** three times when i come over:
twice before going to bed, and once in the morning.
this time we ****** once.
and i know he’s busy studying,
and i know i dont care about him that way,
so why is it all gnawing at me?

it’s probably the romance-soaked pages of the books ive been devouring lately.
movies, tv shows, films
cannot really capture the inner monologue, the lingering butterflies,
the lust one can have for romance rather than ***,
but still a lust in definition.
i want something, i want to have something that i want, i want to want,
but i haven’t wanted in a long while
and i’ve forgotten what it feels like.

maybe im merely and impulsively looking for a way
to ruin what i have so beautifully constructed, piece by piece, as i turned my back on it over
and over
and over.
im only interested in the disinterested,
so maybe im looking to blow down this paper castle of fuckery i’ve built around us,
as I interlace our fingers
as he takes me from behind.

last time we ******,
he told me he was leaving for germany in september,
and he wouldnt be coming back until he had a wife.
he is four, five years my senior,
but the thought makes me uneasy and a bit nauseated.
the closest things ive had to a relationship
are intense, but fleeting, three week flings with israeli boys with beautiful eyes who can barely speak english,
and what we have, four years of ******* but maybe once each year

we first hooked up when he was my age, 21, and i just 17.
it took me a year from then to lose my virginity before i would **** him.
it took me ******* up my flight plans a few years later for it to happen again,
even though i left a girl friend’s apartment that night claiming i would not be ******* him,
unlike the last 5 guys that week.

we didnt cuddle last night, either,
like we normally do when the AC has finally cooled our sweat soaked bodies
enough to handle non-***-crazed touching.
but i guess in the end it is always and just ***,
the budding of it at least,
for every time we spoon
it results in those lil’ hip gyrations, grinding together ever so slightly, until his **** stiffens against my ***,
and eventually, i allowed it to go there,
painful and ****-less.
but the ******* inside of me was delighted,
always wanting him to rough me up a bit more,
slap me a bit harder,
choke me a bit longer...
i’ll take the pain where i can get it.

this cannot be romance.
romance does not push your head further still, after gargling its hairy *****, towards its even hairier ***.
this is not romance.
i cannot paint these white roses red
for they are not even roses.
they are far lighter and more frail than the most delicate origami,
but a breathe away from toppling down,
sustained by
neglect,
****,  
and
*******
alone
in his room after he has gone.