...

He won't understand just like he never understands that I write in patterns like the female orgasm that my logic builds on itself turning and turning in ever increasing circles often requiring pressure and attention to bring the whole act to fruition and even though the journey takes slightly over 40 pages.

I have to use my hands and lips eyes and tongue to get to the point where you can finish.

 I get you there building and building until you want to scream into my ear your satisfaction at the spiral I wrapped you up in to some sweet release.

There's nothing left to say or do.
 Roll your name over again on my tongue like wringing hands of a prayer.
Palms pressing teeth.
Lips silent open.
Wrapping myself in the flesh of your name like sheets of skin.
 The sting of pain dulled by this collection of letters hiding held like a lemon drop under the tongue. The new name of you intersecting the chords of my throat.
Tucked like the pressure of a palm in the bend of the knee. Like lips caught in the shadow of a collar bone. Auricle tongue.

The static of you plaits my hair. Reduces my mouth phonetic--your name pressed out.


I come home
clutch my coffee mug
sip and sip my way back
instead .