rooted in this thing

Last night was absolutely beautiful. the day at work wasn’t, but walking in the rain was pretty cathartic.

A drenched wench. Beautiful.

He got home before me, always w/a smile. Living each day with a full battery.

There are heavy winds outside as i write this. Palms being caressed, fiercely.

I was sad. I’m always sad. He saw, and held me. Cracked my spine. Kissed me.

We went to the bank to deposit money to buy our plane tix to Chicago. But I was hungry, and he was too! And I’m lost at all the choices, and he knows the city better than I, and we drive, and he keeps saying options, and they all sound good. Finally, we end up at some bar by Silverlake? Where they serve a Spanish tortilla he thinks I’ll love.

And he holds me me and asks, “how do we fit together so well?”

And we sit at the bar and order drinks, talk and eat. Uncomfortable subjects are discussed. Worries resolved. Cigarettes smoked.

Chocolate mousse.

Almonds & olives.

Cider.

We finish dinner and drive home, where we drink and go from one idea to the next—cards, wine, strip poker, music, dancing, talking passionately, kissing, sucking his cock, him whispering it’s like he’s “fucking my brains, my beautiful head full of brains.

“…this body!” he groans— his hands everywhere, music— Marvin Gaye.

We move to the bed— he sucks at my tits, my thighs, my feet and ankles, my pussy—a mouthful, he eats and eats and eats, for 30 minutes he eats, he comes up, kisses me and goes back down, I come and he slips inside, hard and carnal, spreads me like a map unfolding, looks, I’m his island, we get hungry—peanut butter, jelly, more dancing—I fall onto the bed—he looks at the portrait he’s drawn of me.

“I’m so proud of this one.” he says.

I smile all over.

I love him.

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