“How are you my twin,” I ask him come midnight on a Sunday.
“I was born a twin, I know no other way to be,” he says smiling.
It’s a miracle and a burden to carry this much love for another human.
I’m mute when he says I love you.
Not because I don’t, because oh FUCK, do I.
It’s like drowning.
I melt in his arms, on his neck.
I fear I’m not enough to keep him.
That someone will sweep him away and I’ll be left with all this love.
But that’s all dialogue.
Those aren’t even my words.
Those are words that were said to me by some person or other, and I willingly gave them a home inside me.
I’m exhausted of this shit.
I need some goodness.
I need him inside me.
To remind me he ain’t going anywhere.
That I am enough.
I am enough.
When we’re existing in this magickal space, in this cave, and he’s painting me and we’re drinking honey crisp cider mixed with whiskey and his hands hold a cigarette in this way that drives me crazy, and his eyes lock with mine, and I can hear the animal in his chest purring, and I’m sitting on the bed, all smiles and coy cause his masculinity compliments my femininity and we feed off of this, and he splits open my legs and kisses the tuft of hair between them and rubs it between his lips and my spine burns with savagery and he sucks out my pearl and licks and licks and licks and I can hear the ocean on his tongue, my salt on his beard, and he smiles looking up at me, and I twitch from the fire in my cervix. I want him inside me slow, wet, swimming in my gut, to feel his swell come out my mouth. I want him to fill me with seed so I can sprout from all holes.
I want us to swim in endlessness…
To find ourselves stranded on our island-bed.
“You get so wet, like a squid.” he says.
I smile, and verify by tasting myself on his tongue
“I love you.” he says.
“I love you too.” I answer.