you are where i am.

another series of hot vents opening in times of crisis. pushing out and drawing in. hot vents. cool tapes. your breath is a hot push on my neck. cross to the deep and search me now. touch my palms and press your lips onto skin.

I fell harder for them then I will for you. understand that. i tell you to be fair. but actually it is only to appease myself.

either way, you were going to fall through a plate glass window. you carry your fate with you. it’s not as simple as you’d like to think. I know you’d like me to think that I carry you with me, daily. this is false information.

spreading my hand and placing it flat on your abdomen, you told me that you'd never been sober in all of the times we'd had sex. i told you that you were a light weight. you didn't laugh. and what do i feel? guilty? should i question why that seems to always be the case?
so then how can you feel so drawn to this? attracted to the idea of these meaningless sexual encounters that are followed or begin with a peppering of psychotherapy to help you cope with your break up. i'm barely holding what i have intact, i can't do anything for you. but why can't you see that?