what is the matter
Isn’t the moon warm
enough for you
why do you need
the blanket of another body?
The first real conversation we had through text messages revolved around a scientific article regarding an astrophysical theory. My responses themselves were convolutedly lengthy, but my underlying desire to impress you with my intelligence was a rather simple matter.
That’s the point we diverged from.
Beneath your sheets, we lulled each other to sleep with discussions of topics ranging from experimental healthcare technologies to rap music. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that moment on your birthday when I misspoke and said “twerk” instead of “tweak.” You laughed and merely said, “It’s okay. I know the type of music you listen to.”
I’ve become conditioned to immediately ask you “How’s work?” every time I see you. And often, it’s essentially the same answer. Your job is stressful, demanding, time-consuming, lucrative. But I suppose all that really matters is that 1.) you have a job, and 2.) you like your job.
We’re both busy people. That much is clear. As you verbally unwind about your work, I frequently word vomit about my coursework, my internship, my other obligations. These yield to rather shallow conversations, but I get the sense that we both feel the urge to talk about them anyhow.
Recently, you pointed out that I lack the predilection for “talking dirty.” Asking you about the etymology of “pussy” in the middle of kissing probably verified that observation.
I’m not saying that the words we exchange are just strings of trivial nonsense. I’m not saying that at all. I adore sharing my day with you in words, as much as I adore sharing my night with you in kisses. Who else will listen to me opine about 20th century Surrealist mistresses and modern day gold-diggers over wine and cheese? You stimulate my mind, my body, everything. I adore you.
But I’m afraid the day will come when I will want to talk about sadness. And I’m afraid that that will be the day you will want to leave.
Before the coda of springtime, I had gathered the lingering dregs of my last dalliance and set them aflame in a hidden inferno that would make even Hephaestus melt with envy. I watched each remnant burn until it all dematerialized—the feeling of his brunette tresses woven in my fingertips, the image of his ashen contours illuminated by the moonlight, the smell of his late-night murmurs tinged with ethanol. I watched it all burn down to the roots of my feet. And beneath those blackened remains, I buried my heart.
But alas, is my heart indeed already dormant no longer? God forgive me, for I have become hinged on unchaste lips. Your kisses are pistols and I have pulled the trigger through and through. Don’t you see? I am the everlasting executioner doused in tragedy.
So perhaps it’s pardonable that I find myself questioning the stars if I should unfasten my grasp and succumb to the ebbing tides now. What am I besides a parasite latched onto the innards of a ghost ship? Yet I am begging you, please, that if you vanish at dawn, to take me to the milieu of your twilight.
The entwinement of flesh between us as your fingers laced through mine was as natural as the fastened pulsing of our hearts. It was little but a subtle gesture of my restrained desire to touch you. With each interlock, minute sparks ignited and died down, their embers gently singeing the surfaces of our skin. It didn’t even matter if it burned. The idea of knowing that I was melting into you was enough.
And I couldn’t help but believe that you felt the same way.
Is it strange that I want to kiss you every time we talk about Schwarzschild wormholes and quantum mechanical torsion?
The stars burned bright for us that night,
ignited by the heat of your touch singing the surface of my skin,
blanketed by the veil of night.
You are dark matter to me.
Am I naive for wishing upon those very stars,
that you do not swallow me in darkness
and devour me like a black hole?
I’m floating in your horizon,
precariously tilting on the verge of falling into your orbit.
But only if you’ll let me.
I called you nebulous,
and you laughed.
My dear, don’t let me become addicted to you,
and the mouth with which you intoxicate me with;
that bittersweet mélange of stardust, smoke, and silenced dreams.
My summer has been plagued by severe writer’s block.