our usual sort of morning: awaken
(sloe-limbed) in the cocoon of your
bed, unsleepy sunlight pouring with demad through
your useless blinds;
linger-loiter as is your daily ritual: stretch
turn, and now—deviate. Accommodate another
live, long form; turn towards twin furnace,
sleepslither an arm around that more delicate waist
a hand in the dune just above the hip
fingertips whispering hot and somnolent
and I, who always sleep alone,
who appreciate the cold sea of a vacuous bed,
somehow fit here in the loving-familiar curve
of your arm, my cheek resting against your
bronze shoulder, warm as
a sun-streaked stone
but, always I knew, that this trundle bed embrace
would eventually fall and that these limbs
would lose their silken flesh to the scales of rot; our Eden
destined to become Gomorrah.
every night I knelt into bed with you
I slipped under your blankets with a hush and prayer—
for every time, I knew it might be the last innocent thing
I do with you.
having become so accustomed to your
cradle-robbing caresses, vulgar touches made honest
sheerly by incompletion: sensation wanders
but it is a desultory traveler, and because it is
discontinuous and wanting, impunity can lead it
but never before have you laid your mouth upon mine
not even in the depths of our effulgent, shameful dark
I never dreamed that you too would foster and nurse
my fragile self-loathing; that you
would too make me hate myself for
letting you touch me.
tis shite. utter shite. but i can't care about that.
really . . .what did you expect? how was i supposed to fucking refuse?
great. fucking peachy.