Rent is due, car insurance, and a dozen other bills. Who cares?
Let’s leave it so, get up and go again, never finding, always looking.
The bedroom suffers the indignity of squeaky springs without the associated satisfaction lately -- that ache for release not recently complete.
Living in a limbo of uncertain arrangements, not certain if I should drink by tea cold or count my life out in tea spoons.
The yellowed shades forget the time of day, and the sore, weary limbs that have withdrawn lately from too much trying.
As others have pointed out, too many things can happen in a second, too many thoughts pass through these chambers of whispering lust and love, but none of the whispers are true.
I ache for the satisfaction of mind and body, from knowing as well as feeling, lying in pools of sweat while our thought soar, skin against skin, mind pressing deeply into mind, the lingering taste of lips lasting longer than the lust, like a key opening a door to some other place we cannot reach in any other way, and somehow, over these few weary days, I have lost the key, and try to make up for it in words – words lost amid the chirp of birds outside, the rumble of traffic, the mundane racket out of which no thought soars.
And yet, when you arrive, we manage somehow to spark fire in this cold water flat, rubbing skins like boy scout sticks until something sparks, pressing hips and lips together until something fits, if not the key yet, an attempt to pick the lock we opened so easily before, looking for the open window now that we have closed the door. But today, this moment, I am alone, thinking of you, but hearing only the sound of the city, the cries of its children, and the endless beat of my heart against this mattress aching for another heart I cannot find.