Captured in a perfumed whirlwind of sheets, you are a musky reminder of bodies played like a symphony written by a manic-depressive composer. You snaked around my spine like a double helix, our bodies entwined in a panicked, desperate need. Not driven by lust, so much as by damnation.
That morning on the train to Prague, I exploded into a pile of candy hearts, both trite with sentiment and meaningful to our walk through the marshy terrain of human compassion. Whispers of you suggested a genuine link to another soul, but this time, the connection was like an old phone with its pig’s tail cord spiraling up–a staircase to the heavens–but with only the hollow tones of a busy signal.
On my way back to my foot-locker apartment, I thought about you, a big strong American holding me. Macho, tough, domineering. Then I thought about later, when you wept like a baby pulled from its mother. I wondered what you were thinking, and about why, after our most carnal moments, you were so frail, so much less of an American god than you tried to be.
Even though I knew it wasn’t true, for one brief second I felt loved. After lifetime spent under my father’s insults, under my own worthless nature, a bittersweet tang swept through me, making me wonder if I was wrong to spit out the teeth of human kindness. To suckle from only from a teat of soured milk. When we exchanged a kiss, a phone number—as though we’d ever meet again—and your credit card number, I understood my place.
But thank you just the same, for a night which felt substantial.
(Inspired by Tom Waits)