“Your pussy is magick.” he says between heavy wheezing.
His asthma is acting up.
We smoke too much.
We’ve been up for hours, talking.
The way new lovers talk.
While the city sleeps, we make love.
I haven’t slept right in weeks and last night was no different.
I am in shadow mode.
The great revelation is coming,
I can feel it.
But, in the meantime, I am sitting at work, smelling of sex, cigarettes and sandalwood.
My inbox is full, but one of the e-mails has the subject line:
“DONUTS DONUTS DONUTS!”
The promise of donuts depresses me.
I will watch everyone enjoy what I can’t have.
I have Celiac’s.
But I cave in because I hate myself.
I want the migraine, the brain-fog, the bloating.
What better way to spend my Tuesday?
I can taste him between bites of my donut.
I carry him in my mouth, my hands, my nail beds.
He is everywhere.
He is everything.
We sheep flock to free treats like addicts.
We are addicted to validation.
We want love more than we want carbohydrates.
We want love more than sex.
We need it more than the hot sun on our cold skin.
More than soft fingers in our hot pockets, more than anything.
We eat to fill the stubborn grumble.
We drink to sink into warmness.
We smoke to burn.
I want to marry him.
… burn with him
To sink into his warmness.
Soft digits in my sugar.
Tonight, sleep will come easily.
We’ll still wake before the sun.
He’ll still make the coffee.
Exhaustion makes coffee taste better in the morning.
Gives us something to look forward to.
Art by John Collins
Donut picture by Todd Leafgreen