A Lot of Words About Nothing...

It could have been easier, or more successful, or less injurious, or more beneficial to both of us, if only we had handled ourselves by using skills that are outside the scope of our emotional experience. In other words, if we were two entirely different people we probably wouldn't be having these issues.

Your hands

Grasping, reaching towards the edges of the sofa as I push from behind. Gold sparkle tip nails leaving trails of ruffled feather suede. I love the shape of your hands my dear, and the way they telescope our lust into the stars.

Distractionary Device

I'm supposed to be writing, but off the page I run my tongue along your collar bone and trickle its pointy end up the length of your neck. My hand, not on the keys, is tangled in your hair pulling your head back exposing your throat. I can't work with you here. My concentration is shit. Couldn't we just make out?

1:22 Sunday

There's a car door gently closing in the street, an alarm single chirping your arrival. There's a hush, tsunami spreading up the staircase. There's a girl opening my door.

Frustrated

My daughter, acting more as mom than child today, has just informed me that my 'slacker' ways have infuriated her. It's nice to see that genetics involve perception and judgement.

Open

The coffee, as some describe bitter, does nothing to open my mind. It's a time for thinking, reflection, and yet the emptiness of contentment allows no passage for a thought. Is this what it is to be spiritual or am I devoid of spirit? Even this question holds no purchase over the day.