|Photo credit: Alex Esquerra|
Last night your bedroom was tattoo-parlor-red…
You were a relentless sex machine and your Alex Esguerra painting was knocked from the wall during our rough housing. I found it behind the bed when I was looking for my second sock…the other sock was still in my hand when I woke.
I love the way you always fall asleep diagonally across the bed, so that I lie awake, contorted and trying to figure out a way to fit comfortably and proportionally into your unconsciousness.
Yesterday, I loved your morning countenance; void of expression as you looked down your nose at the coffee press. Your upper lip rested heavily on the lower, which seemed immovable, that I’m not sure it will ever change. It was too tired to be a pout and I couldn’t look away – so I must have loved it.
In the throws of passion last night, you moaned that I made you sick to your stomach. I asked if it was because I was too far inside you. You said, “you’re always too far inside me. That’s why you make me sick.” And then you came and rolled off of me.
I woke with only one leg in my jeans, my mouth was coated with body paint, and my chest was clawed by your nails.
My other leg was propped on top of an old pine blanket box at the foot of your bed and my right arm was folded behind me and numb. So I threw a sweatshirt over my shoulder – I think it belonged to your old boyfriend, the one you made the Esguerra painting with – and I walked out of your flat leaving the door open. Your cat slipped out behind me and followed me downstairs to the sidewalk. I didn’t care.
I sat blankly staring at Sweet’N Low packets under a newspaper rack at the coffee shop on the corner, holding my mug for what seemed like an eternity of suspended animation – the grip on it’s handle was the only thing that connected me to the planet.
My eyes held that same lack of expression as yours did, but my lips were parted so that air could flow freely in and out if – it became necessary.
Sitting lost in state, it occurred me, that I deeply and authentically affect you and it has nothing to do with fucking.
Your boyfriend’s sweatshirt was a size too big for me and I could tell he wore Creed – I saw a bottle of it on the toilet tank. It’s redolence clashed with the aroma of roasting coffee and I was startled from stasis.
So I left, walking out to a cacophonous city, where the sun had just exploded over the horizon, and I smiled into its blinding brilliance. As the door squeaked closed behind me, I looked to the right for a moment, then turned left. I had no idea where I was walking to and started blithely swinging my arms as I accelerated my gait.
I still had my sock in my hand. And your cat is probably dead.