The Reason Fist Fights In Movies Tend to Start with a Double-Fisted Grab of a Shirt Collar

I was curious about you.

We were just scratching the surface.

Your belt wrapped around my legs, or me behind you to imagine for a bit.

One of the issues with everything being back to normal is that I want to fuck all of the time.

I don't want to fuck just anyone.

I am enjoying the sweetness of beauties that are so thoughtful in their gestures.  The ones paying attention to my likes and trying to recreate them.

An old fashioned movie with poetry and gifts and thoughts.

Those things are nice.

But they aren't what I want.

I find myself thinking beyond the flirtations with you.

That's what those months were.

Surely, you know that.

They were flirtations.

They were not your face in between my thighs.

They were not the sweat of your imagination.

They were, without question, not the sweat of mine.

I know that it scared you.

Scared you in that same way that, as a child, you would feel the rush in your stomach when you couldn't feel the depth of the pool with your toes.

You clung to the side

but there was always the thrill

of letting go.

Not gradually

but pushing off the edge

and in your kidd-o way

not giving a fuck if you died

because at least the thrill of it

would be the last thing

you remembered.





be well; be loved,

k.





(image Mark Rothko, Reds (Red Painting), 1957-1958 via dailyrothko tumblr)

[Shout out to Ayurvedic herbs. I feel like a new man. 110% for the past several weeks. I am so thankful/grateful. My body and brain can tell that they are back to normal, and just in time for Spring. 

Here is to celebratory little white panties and ridiculous amounts of leg.]