Motor Mouth

He talks, and I listen (most of the time). About anything and everything. Weaving stories into my ear about then and now. I lap it up and wait for later, when he is not here to fill the air with anything other than my own thoughts. It’s comforting, really, this carnal escapism, volleying between sex and the mythology of other people’s lives. I’m not sure what I’m running from, but when he is here the demons feel far away. Bingeing on a different reality, and I wonder when I will wake up from this reverie, lost and alone.

He will be leaving. Soon. Eventually. Inevitably. Because that’s just the way the world works. Like sand in the wind. Right now he is a castle but some day soon he will just be remnants in the bottom of my shoe, an irritating reminder of sunshine and summertime as I sit inside grayness alone. I am trying to be the ocean, lapping at his shores, never apart, but I am afraid I am more like the concrete parking lot, where people leave their cars which are carrier demons that will eventually whisk them away from here and back to the doldrums where the rest of us ordinary people always belong. I would rather be the waves, but I am afraid I might never be the resplendent, which is why I close my eyes and pull close to him, so that I might have this moment right now, and when the future comes, I can bury myself in right now for the rest of my life.

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