Your firm pillowy body once placed me on clouds. As warm as you felt and as soft and vehemently as we melded you turned back to marble. My fire was not hot enough, my breath was not sweet enough, my arms were not strong enough. Were my eyes not drunk enough? I remember your soul and your heart and your thoughts like they were clear icy water found desperately in a desiccated desert. I type your words upon my brain and the ink is the only moisture I now know. It is a filthy, aching thing to live your life not knowing if the words you've heard are true.
You used to sit upon my lap coaxing my imploring bones or lay beneath my pounding frame and meet me inside outside and all around each other, clinging tightly to my muscles and my dreams, while my heart was yours.
We used to be the rain and the sun and the moon and the stars and the passionate wind for and inside of each other. Your wetness was my soul's ocean. We were jokes and falling leaves and toys and growing grass and fears and flames and secret kisses, secret handholds, secret glances, smiles and pecks on the round cheeks. We were a secret understanding. We were one. You made me feel like all things silly and beautiful and good.
I miss my heart.
And this shall mean nothing to no one.
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"God have mercy on a man who doubts what he's sure of."
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I need a blow job.
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