we fly from sidewalk to monolith

.


it's two in the morning.
i write on your skin. "Mine. I lick your bone."
maybe the reason i am so willing to sleep with boys, or men, is because it's the quickest way to learn each other.

they are all the same and all different.
some of them love very well. some not so well. but those who do are worse at other things.
i take their cigarettes and stare at ceilings and whisper. sometimes it feels like church, but with laughter. sometimes it feels like being rubbed raw. you spit and moan to hide fear and vulnerability.
you can't live with disgrace. i cover mine sometimes with cushions. sometimes with--

i love all of them, some. not with what they say, drunk, at parties. not with the way they remember my skin. we love each other except for the fact that we can't wait to leave, after. and we're not in love with each other's cores, or each other's socks.
i don't even like socks.
i think if we can't love our drunken slurs, how we remember, our facts, cores, socks--this isn't complete love.
this is never complete love. never complete--

this will have to do.
no fondness and such wanting. i have been held. i have
been held.








are there degrees of blindness? because if there are, i'd have to insist that you are more blind than me. i, at the very least, understood the level of clemency that is proportionate to human fallacy. i, at the very least, forgave you. for the first time, anyway. you, on the other hand, were merciless in your standards and irrationally unforgiving--you had no place to not forgive me. it was entirely unfair.



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