Me:Est-ce que tu aimes le sexe? Le sexe, je veux dire : l'activité physique, le coït. Tu aimes ça? Tu ne t'intéresses pas au sexe ? Les hommes pensent que les féministes détestent le sexe mais c'est une activité très stimulante et naturelle que les femmes adorent
“Gnossienne”—n. a moment of awareness that someone you’ve known for years still has a private and mysterious inner life, and somewhere in the hallways of their personality is a door locked from the inside, a stairway leading to a wing of the house that you’ve never fully explored—an unfinished attic that will remain maddeningly unknowable to you, because ultimately neither of you has a map, or a master key, or any way of knowing exactly where you stand. (via ancient-serpent)
"The longing in our faces cannot end until both shores unite, yours and mine…" - Virgil Suàrez
However, I am between doctors, off the pill, and within the invention of the condom, lies the invention of the broken condom.
It might not be cool to think about Accidents and Origins on a cruise ship. “Titanic” under the breath on the deck, like “Macbeth” murmured in the wings. We verge always on crashing. It might be the gin, it might be the rough seas. It might just be me (engulfed in you).
It might not be cool to think at all on a cruise ship. A flock of maxi-dressed sorority swans float past. A pink tide rising, I come up gasping from our empty entanglement. These are cold girl glares. Silvery ghost women who died gossiping, demanding Death declare one of them the prettiest.
I begin to map your exposed profile. Why me, anyway? I am nothing. A spray of white noise in the night’s endless ink, A mouthful of seafoam spat off the stern. I am the lowest of poets with a patchy sunburn. I am slurring.
A gale catches my blouse in just this particular way, and for a moment, a mist of understanding wets my shoulders. Maybe I want me too.
Leaning across a rail, I think drowning this way might not be so bad. I give in, letting your wake fill mine. Amid the swell, from some inlet recess of me that I have not heard from before, on the underbelly of an echo, the false urgency of the gull’s squawk wails.
I’m not the kind of girl who’d dare ask Death about my looks. Even the finest lines on our maps remain unchanged, and I go to bed alone, abuzz. Later, you use the word “tease.”
The sea will ease, but my last meal will always churn, as I replay your tongue’s last scratch. Over and over. We verge always on crashing.
Slow. You breathe in. A barrel-chested shelter. Shelterer. From weathers and fictions. Furled and reeled by your celluloid-spun mind. If only I were there. I do not want to be cold. (I am trying.) I’ll keep the edit room floor clean. Just to warn you. I’m a bit of a hoarder. I am ready to say it. (And I am not ready.)
You mumble through your dreams. Maybe. I wouldn’t know. But I’d guard each like my own. Every word you will ever almost say. Your orphans. Your nothings. Your ”please understand”s. And the “never mind”s. They sigh heavy in your greasy paper lungs. Babe, your un-popped kernels are gold. If only you knew. I lose sleep over that kind of garbage. I remember which closet. Which shoebox it’s in. I am ready to say it…
You want a wider-angle lens for your camera. A few more popcorn munchers at the alter. I want to know just how cold it gets in your room at night. I want the salt. The butter beneath my fingernails. I want to measure winter’s gradient from the bed’s edge to yours. I want to sleep. If only I were there. I do not want to be cold. (I am trying.) I am ready to say it. (And I am not ready.)