who cares if they get it right and stay home all day and do nothing but write and you have to go to your fucking hell of a job and get paid to do mundane shit instead of write? who cares if the world is ending so slowly you can feel it pulsating in your shoulders, neck and cunt? who cares that you’re a glutton for attention and the corporate world is a foreign concept that feels like poison, and you will not drink it, regardless if it smells like sandalwood? who cares that you can’t relax into yourself because life fed you bullshit and it lingers and you can’t sit still until you are so utterly exhausted that the only thing you can do is knock the fuck out? who cares that sex is beautiful and you can’t enjoy it completely because you feel like a fucking hurricane with legs? who cares if life fed you shit and you managed to get through it but still see no purpose for any of it? not the love, or the food, or the sex, or the laughter.
there are days that you drive home so slowly because the anticipation of love is so overwhelming you want to relish in its essence and stop and get some ice-cream so that your mouth is cold when you kiss him. there are days when the end of the world makes you come harder and sigh deeper and drink like a parched bird. there are days when the smell of his pits and the taste of his spit is all the nutrition you need. there are night’s when the lull and groan of the city trembles like I do when he fucks me straight to sleep. there are morning’s when I’m half asleep and coffee is in my future but my eyes are still closed and his mouth is on me and I realize that it’s not his mouth, it’s his cock and I smile and drool and he moans and kisses my forehead and proceeds to make coffee. there are weeks of bad and months of worse, and there are hours of healing and seconds of Nirvana, and wet grass and dripping mouths, dirty sheets and dirty dishes, and bad words and sleepless nights.
but we will be remembered he & I, even if it’s just a little bit.