About Love |
Cuddling is compulsive to comfort’s obsession; therefore, I’m the motor powering disorder loops. I wasn’t asking commitment or status, just needed to know, hold and be held by coconut smell sticking clothes like aftershave necks. Now, your scent is all I smell as I sleep in my own bed, hugging a comforter pretending it’s your hips. I slick thick hair back with grease just to feel your tropical neck against forehead. Now, oils saturate my pores enough to cry coconut leaves. Your Twilight Zone television screen scares me enough to constantly pat your stomach before your body vanishes beneath my head. Dread wrings out my lungs as I leave your room. Lungs forming black holes for cigarettes I avoid smoking by flooring car’s pedal past BP. I’ve smoked my last Newport lover down to his filter, and refuse to flick the butt from my fingers. I keep sleepwalking to your room: down pit stairs through summit door, bungee cords suffocating waist. Elastic snaps me back to bedside reality constant crickets twisting legs outside my bedroom window; a reminder: The moon sleeps alone too. She just never complains about it. |