The Asexual Twilight Zone

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.