You talked

22 Nov

You talked together about exes and siblings, friends and parents; the choices you made that got you where you are today. You talked about the ones you were with while you were with each other and decided together not to tell them you were. You realized that love had nothing to do with it and you danced together on your toes to Billie Holiday and you sang your hearts out until you were horizontal and then it was all kisses. You tasted of each other’s breath until it mingled and became the breath of one. The one you still remember the day after in a wisp of fallen hair or on the collar of your shirt. The sweet smell that is not quite either of you and yet you pick out certain fragrances like a fine wine. You tasted each one and then you cleansed your mutual pallet with a bit of conversation. You talked with each other; making an offering of yourself – thin and fragile like the communion wafer and with all the same implications. First an exhale of the day’s events then empathy arrives like a deep breath or a good sporting commentary filling the lungs to capacity. The moaning begins slowly with a soft, long caress, a bit of history; builds to a climax as you reveal your secrets to each other and invent new philosophies that aren’t new, but neither is this and finally subsides like an unaccepted paradigm; bodies quivering with desire and glistening with passion until all you can do is hold each other tight and sleep.

 This shit’s all sterile you know. We wished for baby soft and what we got was nothing less than spiritual man. It was a lucky strike. It was real and true and it was all love, like true magenta. It was blue skies and cyan moon clouds just hovering, passing like when the sky just opens up and lets you have a peek. Eight ball in the corner pocket baby, yeah. And when I feel yellow he’s all red. He’s mean and he’s mine. We catch it. We catch it together. We beat it. We scratch it. We watch each other into submission. It’s the ultimate. It’s a fighting game cock until the black comes and the cone rises and the hen crows at daybreak. It’s primary colors, simplicity aggravated. Complexity unraveled like the rope that swung from the old apple tree where ripe fruit fell to the ground and we to our knees. The rope that swings gold and silver, silver and gold svelte around her pretty little neck. A portrait of water, blood and ink it was. The sweetest kiss is a long goodbye. Hey mister, can you spare a spare? Her ass was soft and fleshy and impenetrable, like a heart.

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