I want the passion to make me sick. I want there to be so much regurgitated passion that the saliva between us has been passed more than once and with each throw it is more coated onto our teeth, hot and thick. I am wondering how I could feel as if there were more than one of me. Like I have several different parts, people.
I’d like you to wait up for me. I could come home settled and you could shake me up again. Like the mess from a pomegranate, red faced and speckled. Freckled with the mere desire of how long you have kept your eyes open.
But here they are closed and the living room is dark and empty, clean. There is no mess left of our love and no reward from the cleaning. We are not so exhausted we fall into each other’s flesh like hungry dogs. We are habitual and attempting healthy living. We are adults holding onto to the last breath of childhood where we did not need to meditate or do yoga we were already so zoned and blissful. As we grow into our new and stiff selves we are unsure how to kiss each other as I climb into bed, you are already asleep.
In reality you have only just laid down. Your eyes are still aching inside their lids wanting to see my naked body moving itself into more comfortable covering.
This is all dream. You are fast asleep and I am slow to wake. I want the passion to make me sick. I want to want it to go. I do not want to be the one to settle with each day, each night. I want that to come after frustration, months and weeks of love and sex / saliva and frustration.
the door opens without
you are lying there asleep
i am sitting here awake.
i want the passion to make me sick
