Dear Thomas: I thought about you while I was in the shower today, and I know that that’s a really messed up thing to say because I’ve been spending all of my time trying to convince myself that I’m completely gay and, okay that’s kind of ******* because it’s not like there’s anything wrong with thinking about having *** with you…
Dear Thomas: I thought about you while I was in the shower today and I know that’s a really ****** up thing to say because as the hot water was running down my spine I realized how good our fingers feel intertwined. Dear Thomas, I thought about you while- I thought. I think about you a lot.
I think that I am a gypse in your body and in your head, like I’ve hibernated in your mind all winter but I’ve crept out of your aorta valve to find myself at your centre and beating at your ribcage, sleeping with the spirits you’ve swallowed, nestled into your lymphoid, dreaming about the expanse of your stance like it’s the void.
I think about the way your skin tastes with the water after another shared shower.
I think about your gentle hold and your half-hearted snickers.
I think about the advice you’ve given me, and how I’d reply with it times twice: Breathe.
Dear Thomas: I thought that you and I make a pretty good pair, and I know that’s just kind of out of the blue but you know that old saying “I am rubber and you are glue, all that you say bounces off of me and sticks to you,” but to be honest I think that we’ve got more things in common than anyone knew so how about I just stick myself against you?
Dear Thomas: I must admit though, lately you’ve been kind of distant and I’m afraid of something that might be growing in my chest, I detest the beating but I can’t stop it enough to rest, I know most of it is because we’re both so completely stressed, but I think it would be best if we found common ground it would ground us both in this large aray of static sound, but before I get a head of myself let my mind wander out in the open where I can focus on your body and how it moves between my thighs. I think, I think I like this wild ride.
Dear Thomas: You challenged me to write something that tasted like mahogany, and wouldn’t you know that I’m searching for the metaphors that capture our hearts in syncopation, but the trepidation beneath my feet and the heat coming from your tired eyes lie to me about your circumstance. Just by chance I might find a way to make you laugh, it might be just once, I’ll cherish every second that it fleets across your face, undoubtly like mace my awkward words will trip you into cruelty once again, send me to your room again Thomas, let us be there together. I can’t promise you forever, no I can’t even promise today, but I don’t think you want anything more than this moment of mutual laughter on your bedroom floor.
Dear Thomas: can you smell the old books in the imagery I’ve conjured? Can you conduct a survey about the respectable spans of time it takes for me to take my mind off you and find an alternative subject, when I’d rather be subjected to your passion than anything else, Thomas, can you hear the cracking of my spine when I finally let myself relax. Dear Thomas, this isn’t supposed to be anything but the musings of your mistress, but I did miss this, Thomas, being stuck in the hit and miss that is... this, whatever this… is.
I think about the way your voice sounded when you said “I’m running out of time and gin.” And I can’t begin to mention how it felt to watch you melt beneath me non the less, the stress that washes from your face, and Thomas the point of this is that life is ultimately pointless, so let’s get undressed and share in the sweetness of each-others sweat.
Dear Thomas: I thought about you while I was in the shower today, and I’ve got to say, your kisses only taste bitter if the bite marks don’t linger.
