I am not untouched. Unfortunately. I remember to correct myself. Fortunately. I am fortunate
to have been touched. Wanted, unseen. Seen through the eyes of the solipsistic other, seeing himself. Seeing herself. You remember not to rely on her. She only touches you when she wants. You are violated by each want. Each act. I try to think about the best. This is love.
You are kissed by a breeze that is not there. Your skin anxiously awaits itself, slick, coated in
a thick film of sweat. You are ready. Waiting. Wanting. You think you’ve started to swallow your own. You give everything to avoid choking. Buying as much time as you can. I love the breeze and am willing to live on the hope that it loves me too.
The breeze does not come. Then it comes. Not for you. For him. You don’t mind and are
happy to be included. You mind. But you are sad. The breeze does not understand the cause of its loneliness. As he begins to chew, swallow and digest himself, his need for contact increases. His fear is in direct correlation to his want. He eats some more. He smokes some more. He becomes restless. He fucks some more. And then some more. Body crashing into her weaknesses, over and over and over again. Then before he can open his own eyes he is gone. Then he eats some more. Smokes some more.
The breeze is littered with the fingerprints of countless bodies. He’s young still. He
still dances even though he is beginning to hate it. His self stimulation so heavy, his self penetration so forceful that he has gone numb. His days circle around his years. He walks a spiral searching for transcendence. But when he finds the key he runs. Again. There are more keys out than there is breeze. But he runs. He numbs. He repeats.
You’ve forgotten about you. You are not untouched. I’ve forgotten about me. I am not
untouched. I numb from the work of avoiding numbing. I seek until I break. I only look at my own pieces. I only look at his pieces. I finally see our pieces. But my heart has given out. There are so many ways to go out. I want to love him. I want to come for him. I want him to come for me. I worry he does not want to love. We are both without need. We are about to die from need. I am alone. But not as alone as the breeze. I will be as soon as I wipe my sweat. I wipe my sweat. Feverish, secure, going to die by my own hands. Not the breeze’s. The breeze slaps into me and I feel less than before. I wish I had wanted to feel more.
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