We fuck so much that it almost feels unmanageable, but then I remember that, oh, yeah, my body can endure an almost limitless amount of sex. All I need is sleep and food and water, and I’m good to go for as long as we can take it. So we just don’t stop.
After he leaves, I am imbued with this strange sense of not knowing what the fuck is going on if I’m not fucking. His dick isn’t in me, and I don’t really know what I’m doing. I guess I’m just waiting for him to come back, and in the interim I will go to work, pay my bills, use my favorite charcoal mask twice a week, do the dishes, and online shop. All of which feels fairly empty, because all I need in this life is to be naked with him.
I press my cheeks against these pillows and wait for sleep so I can dream of him when he’s not here. I think of ways that I can be better so the next time he sees me, he will love me more. I think of ways I can run away from all of this with him. I would abandon all of this, if only I could, but the world like a demon is always at my heels. So I bury myself in the hurt of having to be here, like this, and my rage at my skin for being the last thing that stops me from falling into him and dissolving there, together, forever. Pain is knowing that he is right there, just within reach, but that until the day I die we will always be separate. And to be separate is to be too far away for my heart to ever bear.
Love is chaos, I wouldn’t ever live without it.