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box full of matches
I've skated through this
torrid life
a pyro
I smell gasoline everywhere
ready and willing to ignite
to burn down in a blaze of fucking glory
to revel in the burn
I have this neat trick
place the match head down
on the striker
using the thumb of my left hand to hold it
flick it with my right
it flares
a shooting flame that dazzles
through the air
they come closer
to see the spectacle
unaware
unsuspecting
they combust
I hold them as they burn
my arms and chest a
scar spangled tapestry
I huff the scent of fuel
and melted flesh
retching on the stench
but I need them to burn
so I can feel alive in the bonfires
of lust
because I don't know what love is
sometimes I think
I see the sparks of it
in the embers as they
float away
Your name was forgotten twenty
minutes after I finished
bouncing on your pelvis, lain flat
on the field map table, surrounded
with the smell of canvas and gun
oil and freshly cut spruce.
We staggered into that tent
tearing button holes and breaking
skin with our teeth and nails.
Fell against a solid surface,
my bare ass on the edge while
you knelt and feasted on ripe
peach. All I wanted was that girth
inside me, begging for you
to put it in. I was too tight
you said but suddenly my flood
of orgasmed wetness put friction
aside and we knew fucking
should always sound so good.
Only in the morning, did I wonder
where in hell my panties were.
It would be something that was never done
Repeated thru days of sharing a care for quiet
Gestures that finish completely as a plate
Is put down neatly in front of a chair that's
Never pulled back from the table. A place
Prepared and kept clean and empty as
A memory of a word for a name that's not
Used now there's not a body to answer to it.
Your breath is still coming in from the west.
It would be something that was never done
Repeated thru days of sharing a care for quiet
Gestures that finish completely as a plate
Is put down neatly in front of a chair that's
Never pulled back from the table. A place
Prepared and kept clean and empty as
A memory of a word for a name that's not
Used now there's not a body to answer to it.
Your distance is still aware in its kindness, its
Unending being brought in from the west.
It's a kind of guilt you see
for what i did.
I stole her husband
excused in my mind that
she didn't want him.
Banished from her bed
when he still had needs
that I was willing to fulfil.
Over the years we mended
to a fragile friendship,
I was welcome in her house
and she in mine,
but I didn't encourage it.
But now? Now more than what I did
has been stolen, as her mind
insidiously slips away.
Interesting take on the theme. Nice - but sad - ending.
The Next MorningYour name was forgotten twenty
minutes after I finished
bouncing on your pelvis, lain flat
on the field map table, surrounded
with the smell of canvas and gun
oil and freshly cut spruce.
We staggered into that tent
tearing button holes and breaking
skin with our teeth and nails.
Fell against a solid surface,
my bare ass on the edge while
you knelt and feasted on ripe
peach. All I wanted was that girth
inside me, begging for you
to put it in. I was too tight
you said but suddenly my flood
of orgasmed wetness put friction
aside and we knew fucking
should always sound so good.
Only in the morning, did I wonder
where in hell my panties were.
Thank you for the title!this is ripe with the concept that sometimes we are just skin, that needs other skin,
a flashpoint of humanity
crying out into the night
sometimes those are the moments that come back when it's quiet.
beautifully written, thanks for the addition to the thread