Where Maps are Made

I stumble in the thought, drunk, flushed, a moving serpent undulating around my spine and tumbling over in my stomach — twice I stroke my whiskers begging for the memory to return and it does, first cold then warming. I see her smile, crooked, I see her crying but I do not look away. Her first voice is tilted and low and her lovers voice is lower still.

I draw her face down to mine, scrambled in the details; I only find the minutes of her. The aging tape of memory twists her voice and numbs my nerves and as she came she recedes and the aether around me solidifies barring my pursuit.

My lover sinks underneath the weight of a thousand sighs and a thousand more glass stares. While resisting the burden of lost love she groans and threatens to snap. She is still in the fruitful phase of loving where maps are made and lessons are learned and the mystery of emotion becomes feet deeper. I am past that, my home is where lovers lay bare the clothed self and rub raw the inner body, they drink deep of each other and suck the others air from the room and grow dizzy.

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