“Last night I dreamt we spoke all in adjectives,
and I understood you better than I ever understood you.”

“You wanna turn over?”

"Sure" she said, both of them grinning and quickly pecking on the

lips before the torso switching and hip flipping.  They returned to the

nice rhythm for what she needed to orgasm. She was really trying

hard to just let the moment take over her, envelope her with wet

male adorned warmth minus the keen urge to slowly ease her fingers

down where she liked them. She tried to deny the pleasure in aiding

the favorite part of her man's familiar frame, in order to feel him

more. So she grabbed her tits instead and stared up at him, his

breathing of course heavy, lungs sucking up the dew of the small

moist room, and then pushing it back out

with even more force, landing and slipping off her forehead and ears.

The room was accustomed to their sex vapors. She caressed his

defined biceps and remembered whose weight she was allowing to

be pushed into her. He kissed her neck, she smiled. His butt muscles

flexed under the hands that deliciously controlled the pace. There

was no one better than him. No-one's cock was more beautiful or

could be more appropriately sized. Not too big, but big enough.

Swollen Knees

i never cared to remember the keys

                                                        because i always looked forward

to coming home to you, sometimes;

                                                       i would end up waiting

on the curb for hours.

The way the kitchen smelled, the way

                                                           the bed sheets s  p  r  e  a  d,

bunched up when it was put back

                                                          into the wall.

The elastic snapping,         you blaming me for it.

The daylight shifting  light  

                                        shining through the bathroom win    dow-

                                                                         feet on cold tiles.

No-ones extremely slight love handles could exist more perfectly

over hips like his. During copulation, with all the whizzing thoughts

colliding in and out of her head, she was always always always

pleased with the realization and remembrance that she was making

love to her most favorite person in the whole wide world. It was the

comfort in the moment that let her mind wander, and she knew his

mind wandered too. Nothing else mattered, in so far as the actual

appreciation of whose arm's she was in. The give not take.

Hung over and eating a whole

                                               cucumber

                                                                from blind dehydration.

Taking turns with the

                                 minute

                                    to

                                minute

                           pivots of dishes

arguing then feeling your

                                         wrappings around my waist

while my fingers tickled hot water

                                                     and ignored plates

you always found excess grime on.

Making me rewash them, (scrub)

                           rewash them, (scrub)

                                    rewash them, (scrub, scrub.)  

There was something about his wet mouth on hers that brought her

closer to orgasm and he knew this. He kept his lips close and

available only sometimes teasing her by kissing everywhere

else, while she tried to inch her tongue closer to his next destination

on the red swell of her ecstatic face.

i always tried to wash them better the

               next time.                            Every time

i left the                      milk out,                             it was a tragedy.

And you got mad with me                 

                                          when you came home

to a dirty bathroom            

                                         which i should've cleaned

before i left the day          before you did to Paris.

                                        Because you were the hoover-er.

You helped me in pounds

                           so i could survive the days before my paycheck.

We moved three times.

                                    i moved four and you moved four.

i moved before we moved.

             You moved after we moved.

                               Moving was fun.

We had accumulated so much because

you didnt want to throw anything out

passed on to us from place to place.

High-lighted flesh blushed. Chest against chest. Skin sprang off skin.

In the aura around their two bodies pressed together was the sound

of flesh un-sticking, re-magnifying, un-sticking, re-magnifying. If

words on a page could make a sound, it would be here.

i will return to a man who let me              sleep

                                                         in a sleeping bag

on the doorstep in a drunken stupor

                                                        the night he threw me

                                                        a surprise party

                                                       and wouldn’t let me

                                                       ride my own bike home

with the balloons

                          attached to the handles.

Not even my own bike.

It was his Dad's along time ago.

But i did fix it, shine it and get a new bell.

She spread her legs wider in anticipation, held her breath before

curving her spine like a cat, slightly elevating her goose bumped dark

pink nippled chest to his mouth while the melodic contractions of her

vagina hit the highest note, used the most meaningful words of her

physical vocabulary and resonated the stadium of her milky frame

like an operatic vibrato. Hugging the explosion of his warm white

response to her overture. "Get off, Get off, Get off."

Room too small to hold our awkward flaws

                                                             and excentricities,

but was the perfect size for filling up on comfort

                                                             and doing separate things.

Basking in the silence of each other’s presence.

We tried to get over ourselves

                                               so we could simply let the other be.

Got too comfortable in the lackage though.

                                            Lackage of a lifestyle un-improved materially.

i had never been so un-selfish in my life.

i hate that you know all the truly ugly things about me.

The bumps i had on my fingers and toes like a heat rash.

See-ing me stupidly bruise when attempting to

                   z------------oom to you

through a hallway, kneeling on a wheely chair.

Following you, transporting my wanting you

from living room to bathroom.

They lay there. Spent. "I can't feel my legs" she says. He laughs and

groans and inhales happily with his hand on his chest and sprawled

legs. Her thighs are covered. Sticky. Frozen in a glazed after sex

limbo. They have done this so many times it is like making a cup of

tea. He is the milk. She is the sugar. Drank till bottom visible, the cup

is put into the sink. She knows how many seconds not too wait, in

order to beat him in the race to the bathroom. She walks to the

bathroom legs apart as if she has pissed herself and doesn’t fancy

any more drippage down her legs. In the bathroom she squats in the

tub to wash away his left overs before she runs a proper bath. The

light through the window throws a glare through the transparent

shower curtain. Mellow blue light melting all around her, flickering

sporadically on the tired tiled wall. 

You washed my cut

                              with honey soap and dealt with the fact

 that i wouldn’t have sex with you that night.

Got offended every time you tried to come                   close and my

knee winced cause it thought you

                                                would forget about it and crush it

or make some drastic movement-

                                  eliminating all my chances to walk again.

You roller bladed to the store for my ice.

He lay there for a while on his back, frog legged, listening to the

water running and thinking of her. He rubbed the goo off his cock

with blue tissue. He didn’t like talking much after. He just felt

mellow and tired all over. He felt like a primate who had done what

was needed. He had escaped reality with her for those couple of

minutes and now it was time to return. He chuckled to himself

how cruel life was, one minute you’re in the middle of an orgasm,

away in the galaxies, the next your realizing how wet the sheets are

and that they need to be washed. Messy seconds affecting the next.

He finally got up and walked toward the bathroom with blue tissue

still clinging off the tip of him and knocked on the bathroom door.

“Who is it?” she asks coyly.

“Can I come in?”

She smiles through a “No…”

After about a minute of his scratching, finger tapping and moaning at

the door she washes the conditioner out of her hair, climbs out of the

shower wet like a seal and opens the door to let him in.

“Hi…”

he says with kisses down her neck and back while she leans over

wrapping a towel over her head. They speak with their eyes now.

She reaches for more kisses he squeezes her toothpaste. He

showers and when she’s done her makeup towels him down. He

shaves while she blow dry’s her hair, occasionally directing the hot

air at his bare ass, testing to see how far in between his legs she can

point the thing until he smothers her with shaving cream and the

bathroom maneuvers turn sour. They don’t speak because there is

already too much happening. Speaking would only make things more

complicated. So they basked in the silent agreement that when ready
     they would walk to the grocery store hand in hand, occasionally

commenting on how many prostitutes were already out in the late

afternoon on Sussex Gardens. Squeezing their implanted breasts

and biting their lips at cars passing in the vulgar manner that

entertained them. There is not much to be said in the bathroom after

a shag.  Only longings for the silence, to be felt months later when

reminiscing small intricate essential details which accumulate a

history.

When i wanted to do cool things

                                                  to the window, you said "maybe"...

The best picnic was when we brought a roasted chicken.

Reminding us of Spain and licking

                                                      carnivouricly off our fingers on the

beaches, while I admired how you spoke so many languages.

I remembered being on the train to the airport  seeing my self in the

                    windows                                                    reflection.

                                         So happy to be with you.

 Feeling the swell and freedom of youth under my

heel and in the map in

        your        pocket. I trusted you. We slept on each other, taking turns

 and looked                  through alot of windows.

Onto the other side, looking at the same thing for the first time,

at the same instance,

                                with the same gaze,

                                                       almost with one and the same mind.

We recorded the money we spent and on what.

My id, ego and superego

misses your warmth

and just the fact you wanted to be with me, despite my flaws,

the rotten milk,

                                                                the dishes in the sink,

                                                               the bed not up,

                                                              the lost keys,

                                                             bruised knees-

it seemed every complaint was how I didn’t fit into your surroundings.

The way blood swells under muscle and skin, with nowhere else to go.

They put their shoes on. His are white and brown vans mirroring the
     ‘type of shoe’ Andy C wears in the poster on the wall. Hers are

sequined black ballet flats, which were once dedicated to be worn

only in light walking museum tours (to mold them to shape.)

As he’s turning off the computer and grabbing his keys she

remembers and hopes to evade his noticing of the sink full and that it

was her turn. She grabs her bag and on his way to the door, passing

the kitchen he sort of clucks his tongue, stands with his hands

against the sides of the doorway to the kitchen, looks back and

smiles like a parent excited to use their power. And she stands there

clutching her bag, lips pressed together, eyes big and innocent,

waiting to be reprimanded. But instead, he rolls up his sleeves and

walks towards the sink. Her eyes swell, her fists clutch and to the

sound of running water she does a little victory dance. He pokes his

head out of the kitchen doorway. She stops embarrassed, still and

straight like a pencil. He pokes his head back in. She resumes her

dance behind a wall from where he can’t see her and really starts

busting some moves. She decides to slowly creep up behind him.

Hugging and sliding down the hallway’s wall, her hands cautiously

rub forward on the white vertical surface and then hold the doorways frame
     to peek from behind to see his back towards the sink. Quietly

but confidently she steps up to him and slowly reaches her hands

around his waist. Kissing his neck and behind his ears where she

knows gives him a little reactionary tingly feeling under his right butt

cheek. He puts the last wet plate in the drying tray, turns around,

grabs her chin with both hands and kisses her

                                                  and kisses her

                                                  and kisses her.

There was tea in your cups on mornings

                        when you didn’t ask

                  and I waited for you yellow dressed

                                         and excited all afternoon

to make your life a bit brighter and better with what

I knew how to do.

                                          Write poems.

                                  Sew up holes in clothes.

Give you blowjobs when you were already late.

Proof read your essays, pick things up at your mums house....

Tell me that really,

I did more for you.

They stumble and make their way back into the bedroom, laughing

and falling on each other and onto the unmade bed, under the

covers to resume their places at the beginning of the story.

She grabs on top of his boxers and kisses down his neck, chest,

stomach, hips . . . And he says: “You wanna turn over?” 

She smiles, 180’s, and everything is in place.

          In seconds the human frame goes from being hungry to full.

From surged with energy to incapable with exhaustion. From tired, to

complacent, to restless, to ecstatic again. From hard to limp. From

inspired, to mellow, unconscious, to conscious. Seconds and

surroundings make us switch on ourselves. But there is a sound

a silence that everyone needs, made by another, to

balance it all out. Their silent circadian rhythms were back in sync,

undisrupted by groceries, full sinks or sentences.