I practiced kissing napkins with my mothers lipstick before I met you, and also before I met you, i practiced on lips of sometimes fine gentlemen and sometimes hard hands and usually I practiced bedroom eyes with another’s wolffish gaze. The napkins I tried my mouth on dried me up, and the bodies that sought to consume burned me-you can see marks from their fingers, here and here and in other dark places that I don’t know how to show you yet. I fellate a cigarette and I think of you and your taste, until my head turns to ash and my dreams are gone with the smoke. But, I’m telling you, as I strip and stumble, I did practice for you and yet I had no way to prepare for love and it’s tendered poisons, I had no way to perfect my voice begging for god in the sheets. My darling, give me your slick and supple death and pay heed to the rapture that are my thighs and what lies between them— you cannot look back after this, so bury your promises within me.
Impossibly lovely prose poem. Guys, you might not be able to say it but you know you feel it too. What she said? We can find that in us too. (And no, I’m not just sitting on a lofty tower of wisdom here, I got there step by step so I know you can too. Just saying that if I could find it in me I promise it’s there in you too.)
