Constructive criticism is appreciated
I want our mouths to meet
so I can run my tongue along your teeth
and taste your breath as you sigh
and moan when I squeeze your thigh
Use your nimble fingers to trail
down my back—cup my ass, make me ail
for release and I’ll return the favor
…A fervorous kiss for now and
a steamy workout for later
I relate to everyone I meet
even though I have not walked in their shoes
I dig deep and connect via raised brows
and sincere solemnity
If a tear is shed, I may shed one too
but after the moment has passed
My reaction time is set to delay
so intake is at the highest of caliber
I feel like I’ve forgotten how to convey
the fleeting feelings fired from fraying fibers
residing in mushy tissue
Understanding is not my issue
Being definite is
I mold and shift, like a contortionist
and cease to untwist when coming undone
Not even puns are funny,
and laughter has lost its luster
Music can no longer move you,
art is too dark a shade to be refreshing
Colors drain the pigment with each stroke
of imaginary hands caressing your skin
Words will not suffice as a vector
Nor will time spent with a mirroring image
of the flaws you project back onto yourself
Like the deserts in the Sahara, conversations
are dried up and blown into the air, never
to settle and be rehashed again
It was a long day at work—longer drive home. I had been feeling nauseous all day, thinking about her. She was acting strangely. Something was bothering her and she wouldn’t talk to me about it, but there wasn’t a lot I could do. When I got home, I tossed my keys into the basket on the desk and went straight to the bathroom. The Chinese food I had for lunch didn’t really help my stomach. When I finished my business, I washed my hands for a while and stared in the mirror. I contemplated asking her to talk, but figured if she was giving me the silent treatment, that was probably out of the question. After drying my hands with a makeup-stained towel, I exited the bathroom and wandered to the kitchen. I absentmindedly opened the fridge and frowned upon viewing nothing edible. I stood there for a moment, shuffling through my mind for the right words to use.
“Have you eaten?” I spoke just above the television’s volume. The couch wasn’t far from the counter so it’s not like she could pretend she didn’t hear me, and I know for sure she wasn’t engrossed in that commercial for Silly Putty that comes on twenty times a day.
“Yes,” she replied. “I made some spaghetti. It’s in the oven, if you want some.” I turned around and opened the oven. I pulled out the pan and unwrapped the foil, revealing a cheesy mess of noodles and sparse sauce. I took a deep whiff and didn’t instantly become nauseous, so I grabbed a bowl from the drying rack next to the sink and served myself. I stood there for a moment to decide if I wanted to heat it up in the microwave or eat it as is. Siding with the latter, I sighed, twirling my fork, and rounded the counter to be met with her tired eyes.
“I’m going to bed,” she mumbled. She was doing her best to avoid me.
“Why so early?”
“I’m just tired.” She met my eyes for a moment, and then her eyes fell to the floor. I couldn’t tell if she was lying or not.
“Are you stoned?” She knew I hated it when she smoked because all she would do is lay around, brood, and sleep. As of late she’d been doing that a lot.
“Can we not?” she groaned. She always said that as a dismissal, ever since tumblr.
“Can we not what? Can you finish that sentence?”
“It is a sentence—I’m going to bed.”
“Can I get a kiss goodnight?” She sighed and met my eyes. They looked even more tired than before. She obviously didn’t care for a kiss, which upset me a little. I leaned in, cupped her chin, and pressed a quick kiss to her lips, then turned to sit on the couch and flick through the channels. I didn’t want to linger since she didn’t really want one in the first place. I didn’t turn around to watch her off into the bedroom. I told myself I didn’t care if she didn’t care. What was even the point of carrying on our relationship? We were practically working ourselves to death, which was most likely the reason behind the roadblocks we’ve encountered. Things used to be much simpler, much easier; before her mom passed, before the bad trip, before the new job… before life decided to fuck everything up for us. Before the psychiatrist, before the clinic, before Maroney died—before life fucked everything up for us. Relationships are hard, I’ve always known that. Dealing with your own life is hard, and when you share your lives together, it’s even more difficult. We used to connect, but I think our connection is fading. I’m unsure of what to do to fix it. I hate that I always have to be the one to take action in a situation with her. I’m always the first to apologize or to suggest we sit down and talk about something. She was so stubborn and passive; she hated remote confrontation, and would get rather defensive if you were to imply there was something wrong on her part. She wasn’t the easiest person to talk to, and I honestly I was just as stubborn as her.
I settled on The Big Bang Theory to drown out my thoughts. It was the only thing tolerable at this hour, sadly enough. I turned the volume up a few notches to hear better, then suspected she would come out any minute to ask me to turn it down. She hated this show. I understood why, but I still sort of enjoyed it, only because I love seeing Darlene from Roseanne on occasion. The spaghetti was actually decent as well, though a little cheesy for my taste. I preferred more sauce, less cheese—she the other way around. I finished my bowl and she hadn’t exited the room once. She may actually have been really tired and I was being insensitive. Either or, I’ll be masturbating in the shower tonight.