The ocean seems to collapse tonight. You exist, but you are not here. All I have now
is this universal blueprint on my left ring finger. I sit here alone though, listening to
Madonna, watching Black Swan and I wonder when your short, stubby fingers will slide
into me once more. All those nights you came home and smelled of piss and death.
The dirty Mexican boots you left by the fireplace. What am I to do with all this now?
We fucked a guy with a toe fetish once— I always did what you wanted to do.
But now I am like a lost cat in the gutter. My prey— smell, an easy game as I walk by:
my ripped jeans, fitted t-shirt, curled eyelashes. I like to pretend I am a movie director,
hiding behind a black camera, dressing my shame behind a plastic world. Every weekend
is another man, another bed. The exhausted wet rubber hanging on the executives I fuck
in hotels like the Sheraton or the Double Tree in Hollywood, California. How can I sleep
with strangers? Their ripe cocks expand in me, like a blooming pink dahlia. I miss that.
If you could just come here, turn me inside out again. I long for the brown touch of your
body against mine, creating new moans under the half moon. I open
my window though and see nothing but a black canvas, not even the stars peek out
tonight, just the sounds of lonely grasshoppers on the edge of the window frame
and the distant cries of the black waves crashing in and out.