I just ache
to be touched by you still swimming in heat moist and quivering silently beneath soft black cotton but in those fear-mongering moments I can't move. Like a statue made of marble I ache to touch you but I end up sitting there cold and lifeless next to you on the bed thinking of a million ways in which to stroke you gently but all we can muster together is a few brushes of the hand a head resting on a shoulder a full-bodied tight squeezed hug an awkward cheek kiss and it's excruciatingly painful. So much tension that builds and builds and builds and builds never getting anywhere. I can feel it penting up in you too through engorged pupils shaking knocking knees fidgeting hands looks that aren't deadpan but open and raw and swelling. There are rises and dips moments of eclipse where you and I find comfort in each other's arms whether they be wrapped or resting whether they be hovering just hovering almost touching we were almost touching. Seeing your smile in the doorway as I left lanky frame in depth an ache I cannot escape warming the cockles of this here mongrel heart vast into infinity. What a funny little cuddle jamboree!
wanting your arms around
my torso squeezing and sleep deprived caused by fantasies of you late last night but i wish you'd wish lips like ours could touch again but better be smoother and slower and sweeter like Max & Sylvie and it could be delightful if only you'd make more time for me and it's painful to want you so much so visceral, so intensely that my want is grimy and slimy dragging my inner **** in sloppy circles cut to your exact shape and build if only, if only you knew how much i drooled underneath the covers last night, shrouded by hunger, blanketed by invigorating horniness a longing that never seems to go away whenever i'm around you and it's exhausting
Loads of bubble wrap piled behind
and it crackles like how a stomach gets twisted on itself after eons of sleep decoding it's diaphragm to follow the blips and beeps and bleeps encrusted on trusting a tight gut reaction to wanting to touch you. But waiting is so difficult. Loads of suds creep up forming in cysts or scabs upon stomach encasings all slimy and orange inside with a stretchy cover all deep royal purple with dark pink veins coursing through it encoding the rapture of film recording while the lining inside gets all clammy with arousal secretly clenching this yearning and aching just wanting to touch you. But waiting is so difficult. It's a difficult, messy procedure that leaves the body exposed if it comes in contact to actual skin and flush and heat and mucus but it is a necessary step to colloquial banter within the clustering of organs all internally arguing while the overwhelmed brain tries to keep order and the genitalia hums all quiet in the corner because she knows she runs the show. And it's funny because the brain knows he'll have to give in to the actual world of living folks and climb out of his bundled fabulous fantasies in order to make reality plausible. And in wanting you and in waiting I've found myself in visceral shock to the point where I panic and all that's jumbled up and bound inside me seems to clench tighter. And I fear that in waiting for your mutual touch and I fear that in wanting to be with you so much I'll collapse under the weight and never get up. Loads of words hide beneath me resting in tubes that resemble the small intestines in looping nests of unbridled questions. Will it be enough to see you and not touch you? Will it be enough to talk with you and not kiss you? Will it be enough to be chaste and respectful when all my brain needs to do is test you? When all my brain wants to do is clobber you whole, chew, then swallow, spitting out bones?
and isn't strange
that i'm sitting in my car in a parking garage thinking of you and missing your stupid plumb apple face or maybe it's carved from soap or shaved glass fragmented by pieces collected in bindles followed by bundles of the joy i used to have of the sleep i used to get of the energy i used to take and isn't it strange how i have no desire to have you all to myself for you are an automous being that breathes and thinks and acts wholy different than me but i can't help but miss you and your kiwi colored eyes with the seeds cut out dipped in a ring of gold and like smegal i yearn to hold that precious ring of gold in my shriveled hands even though i know it'll corrupt me but i'm drawn to mordor all the same that's what it's like missing you wanting to go there even when I shouldn't and isn't it strange that my world is shifting complicit and complicated a deficit of the senses a pull from the void a shake of the head with such filigree i am sated but blinded by such yearning to touch your hot skin feel it rest against mine again but maybe i'm too addicted to sparks
It takes all I have
to control each action sluiced and sliced into little round cubes burnt by internal fire soft ash dust sparse windy air pocketing my desire for you in pieces just waiting for the right moment to leap into unknown waters feet first so frozen and the river could be cold to the touch but your skin is warm and gentle heat rising searing my arm tingling my senses scrambling my brain to mottled bunches. I have too much self control (and it's eating me alive.)
Take my heart out of the gutter and shake it ‘till it bleeds.
That lonely mother-****** can’t breathe unless the sinews stitch back together like the veins of leaves, all smooshed by heels and debris. My heart can’t see. Laying in that gutter; it can only believe.
— The End —