I’ll take you now, all that you are. Bite into my arms, you’re not trying to hurt me I know so I smile, you are just trying to be as close as you can for awhile. While you cannot feel guilt, while you forget to second guess. Your hands encase my wrists and your eyes bore into my own, I know what you’re looking for - the parts we never show. You outline the digits of my hand like they are your favorite tools to manipulate, that they are the only phrases you may entertwine with your own at the height of moments. My skin glides above yours, begging for the dissertation that you only can write.

Those first sentences will tentatively start with brushes of fingertips, touches at my arms and thighs, but they will pause after an introduction of lips and I will feel as I have at every single one of your readings. Foreplay is just your way of working up to your main point, no pun intended. The facts and examples are the neck kisses and when we undress you bring forth your objectives in a way I could never deny, would never ignore. Another moment to take each other in, as if we were opposing sides of the debate but that is hardly the case. But it doesn’t last and who’s to say who is to blame, who could not stand the wait. The lines you spin, so soft across my mouth I will murmur like quotes I have read in books, but the hooks that pull you closer to the truth, are teeth in my bottom lip demanding I be closer to you. Undertones whisper past my ears as your hands find themselves tangled in my curls and I lose myself to your voice, calming and soothing, as strange as that may seem. The tone you have set is one of urgency, but with a need to get the point across and not lost in it’s volatile haste.

The words you lose to my mouth in a kiss, and I forget the voice you are using, because I no longer need to hear you because I feel you instead. The strife, the iron in your soul and the somehow simultaneous fear and lust for life are pulling me into you. Or you into me. The body paragraphs have come together all so suddenly that I could cry out, but your mouth swallows mine and I am enthralled with the story we are writing for a short time. While you cannot doubt yourself, while I am free and neither are second guessing. We take advantage of such moments with a vigilante manner as if to say it was what should have been happening all along. My nails and teeth on your collarbones give you that extra, that bite of reality you needed to know you were on the right track. We spread out a colorful vocabulary of bruises and smears and scratches on our pages, tearing at all the feelings we assess only under wearisome candlelight and strong liquor. You have come full circle and your hands firm on my hips are when you make your final call to end the case, eyes on mine and mouths only responding to the other instead of their original owner.

We have reached our conclusion, or have we? Fiction or reality?

I hate to say that I need you
Because they say you never need anyone,
to need is vulnerable, weak, desperate, and wrong.
But want is not strong enough,
I want cookies or longer hair,
I want things but they do not speed up and slow down time when I get them.
So I don’t say that I want or need you,
but after so long, that lie builds up and bubbles over and it comes out like a mantra.
I need you, I want you
I want you, I need you
I want to need you
and I need to want you
The wanting needs to happen
The need is so wanton
Please, oh please
I need you and I want you
Neither is wrong and I feel neither more greatly than the other
but right now I feel nothing else at all
So I will need you, as I want to
Because I want to need you
And I do, and that is the truth

we spun threads of truth with our kisses, tween our hearts
and though I parted from you, my gold thread was still pulled taught
but yours grew slack with loneliness or anger, I do not pretend to know which
either or, the shine fell away, it could not hold up to this, decay
I plucked my thread lightly, to see if it still coiled with your own, but there was a snag
it broke your thread and now I am sitting in a memory of a garden, holding very pretty strings
That are no longer connected to anything

just let me crawl beside you,
I am fairly small,
you won’t notice I am there.
Trace my fingertips and keep one hand on my hair.
The rest of our bodies hardly touch,
except in moments of readjusting in our sleep.
Well,
besides our feet;
two pairs of cold feet that always manage to find each other across the space of secretive sheets.
You invited me to visit you,
to fly across the country,
and yet you claim to care so little for me.
Then I have read that you have asked to see others,
to write with others,
but you asked them
‘would you like to write with us?’
Is it safe to assume I was the other part to that team?
It’s never safe to assume with you
, I guess that’s why I stick around.
I keep following your cryptic directions to the imagined Wonderland,
and I am the pure, white apron wearer that is stained with your teas.
You call me a possible temptation,
you have referenced me as Satan,
as if you were afraid but you sir are intrigued.
You are the temptation, devil’s advocate, not me.
Because Satan does not wish for his victims to quell their fires and demons,
nor for them to reach their full potential.
But calling me the guilty party, the bad guy,
the bloodthirsty queen is how you can keep yourself away,
from the truth.
But you are mad for trying, for thinking you could.