4/17/2012

The night was strife for disaster.
An attempted blunt roll, watch the master.
She'll teach you.
Her fingers exact, her spit against tobacco leaves.
Too many stoners in a red Jetta.
The beginner, with our wisdom.
We're getting pizza and I cannot speak and we laugh like life has been injected.
We look happy. What a concept.

Double-inhaling, and I'm gasping when she bites there.
And a high drive isn't complete without contemplating if I'll live or not.
Thoughts striking on the East walk.
I rather live, be happy, and die young, then live long and without completion, without satisfaction, without that sort of fill.

It's the class you're intent on skipping.
It's the Winnie the Pooh stuffed animals and pressed kisses.
It's tangling the sheets and the legs and the equivalent arms.

As the boy in band shirts runs his errands, we fuck on his bed.
I'm grinning and murmuring into your ear.
Something about how you rock the sweatpants and v-neck.
And something about at what point the sweatpants came off.
We're exchanging marks, and the bruises you have to work for.
And you're breathing against my ear.
My neck's bent over your breasts, the sweat building up.
The liquid coating my fingers and you're tapping into potential.

Your arm is tight against my torso as we come up with excuses.
The two-hour delay.
But you hold nothing back.
Sensitivity shattered.
But you're teaching me illusion is for the weak. Truth.

You're smiling, it's a toothy grin of sorts. The one you're apt to make.
The tilt of the head and how are we all doing.
You bring me to the verge of death and letting go and feeling purity wash over me.
And time again, you'll back me up against an empty closet.
We learn each other's bodies on a boy's pastel sheets.

He's away playing the bass.
He's doing favors for the girl he loves.
And we're on his bed, gripping hair and hips.
Bumping our head on wooden limitations.