blue.

Tiny galaxies composed of love trace the outline of my lips,

Racing back and forth, almost as rapidly as my pulse;

Almost as gently as my legs start to quiver.

Floating through the space between here and ecstasy.

Fingering my heart as it passes across your lips.

Stealing my breath, as yours so delicately extracts my heart,

Taking it gently to that place beside yours, just like home.

YES.

Yes, it was just a casual hello that I knew no meaning of.

Never alluding, never forward, never questioning; never revealing your intention.

Yes, it was just a casual outstretched hand that didn't have to be taken.

But I said yes, and a sexy grin crawled across your lips.

Yes, it's just a jittery look over the shoulder, a hand to conceal, a double-take.

Making sure nobody knows; protecting you, protecting me, my innocence.

Yes, it's just a fuck, just a suck, just an "uhhhhhhh".

As I bounced in your lap, neither of us even halfway clothed.

Yes, it was just a bad decision, just a one time deal, just a mistake.

As I get dressed with your carnal eyes on my flesh.

Yes, it was causing pain, causing hurt, just one simple white lie.

Grinning from ear to ear as you tell me you'll call me, knowing so much better.

ash.

Breathe. Just once, just twice; just keep doing it. If breathing is a sign of strength, I guess I must be strong. He tears me down in all his possible ways. He shames me, he embarrasses me, he hurts me, he takes me for granted and he yells at me. He tears and tears and tears, till I'm just here. Still a rather large mass, yes. But a mass of hurt, confusion, anger, rage, love, hate, sexuality, and everything else he makes me feel. And he just stares, uttering that apology that hurts worse; that apology that is not an apology, but a challenge to keep going.  And by God, I always do. I fuel hism fire because I know I will get him to where I am. And we can stand, masses of hurt, staring at one another with the expression screaming "why do you do this?" But we do this for love, somehow. And his mass of hurt moves closer still, because I know him, even in this state. His motive is to fix it, to get me back, to restore he and I to the beings we were before the anger unfolded. So I can put my cloak back on and cover my hurt. He touches me lightly, tracing the wounds that make my hips and waistline fall so nicely. Kisses the marks that make my lips so delicate and fragile. My insides shiver, knowing he's going to break it all again. He continues touching and touching, until the touching turns into the thrusting that usually happens between he and I. And at the end, I fall into that pile of ashes he keeps by his bed. No more.

"hello?"

unless you got a receptionist,

you can quit lying.....

at least she sounded happy.

but hey,

your dick makes me happy, too.

pretty.

we've all got pretty bones,
but our exteriors are what suck.
touching one another in animalistic manners,
no manners at all.
we touch them all, and still there's some for later.

we've got such pretty faces,
but our thought processes are what suck.
hanging one another out to dry,
under the bus.
but we need them when we need them, maybe later.

we've all got pretty bones,
but we've got such horrid personalities.
no regard for any soul, save ours, of course.
we simply don't care.
but we expect others to care; we shove it in their faces.

we've got such pretty faces,
but we're all such horrid people.

linger.

you look good in the spring, and you're such the perfect husband.
holding her hand and kissing her lovely cheek in the breeze.
but you're having trouble, you see, or maybe you don't.
button up your coat, dear, there's a slight chill.

you look good in the reflection of that glass of wine.
pretty for an old man, pretty for a young man; you never looked your age.
smiling with soft red lips, telling of all your battle scars.
none quite as impressed as i was, two springs ago.

you look so good on her arm, such an odd little man.
but you're beautiful, you're cocky, you're absolutely grand.
you can let this one go, you can stop trying, you won long ago.
you kept your prize, on a shelf with all the others, not quite as shiny.

you look so good as you fade away, little by little.
but you never really were the type to stay.
just the type to mold, to fix, to stretch things as you want them.
you lingered just long enough to break my heart.

and i said i'd never tell you that.
just go on, walk away.
i won't be okay if you do.
but i said i'd never tell you that.

It's Said...

It’s said Mr. Jenkins was a good man,

Sure, it's said, over and again.

But good old Jenkins had a grudge,

Gorgeous as the bitter old bitch was.

She came calling for morning coffee, (wood, if you please).

Chipped mauve nails gripping that cup, floors up.

Giving Jenkins those hungry hazel eyes, (startling, some say).

Jenkins giving her something a little more below the belt...

It’s said Mr. Jenkins was a good man,

But he spat in her morning coffee.

Watching her ruby lips at ear after ear,

Beckoning to their favorite room, “good acoustics".

She flipped the bird with a witty grin, (wood, behind the counter).

Digging her half-assed nails into another man's hand.

Baseball, grandma's panties, stale pussy, anything, (just slightly aroused).

Jenkins heard every moan, every utterance of that man's name.

It’s said Mr. Jenkins was a good man,

But he took her the very next day.

And he ravaged her; his and his alone.

And she screamed pleasure and hatred.

She wrapped her ankles around the old bastard's neck, (leverage, some say).

Screaming out every name but his, breaking his being, his stride.

And he slapped that old bitch dead on the ass, (she liked it, ineffective).

And Jenkins choked her nice and hard; she looked so pretty in blue.

It's said Jenkins was a hollow man,

And he sliced his wrist in her coffee,

Dying of satisfaction watching her swallow.

And he jacked it right then and there, (dead wood).

It’s said Mr. Jenkins was a good man,

But they changed it to Genesee Hotel.

It’s said Mr. Jenkins haunts those halls,

And that bitter old bitch gets coffee every morning.