Amy Winehouse breaking my heart
moaning dead tunes that crackle
from the speakers of your cell phone
while we fuck on your bed
in your living space
in your ex boyfriend and his wife’s
The only separation being
three curtains which, with the wall, make a box.
The only other separation being my heart from my cock.
Which is inside you now.
The TV screen illuminates the room
dim and mute
as I pull your hair
and your nails dig into my back
my left hand closes around your neck
and you gasp
Paradise by the Netflix light
At the Hemlock earlier you told me
let’s go home and fuck
but you can’t spend the night
I looked at your hands
older than they should be, given your
perfect all-American face
and I thought of the tattoos that cover your
perfect all-American body
that say things I don’t remember
“I am lost.”
I am too, we just wear it differently.
This bed is not quite a futon
but more a love seat that folds out
and it’s not quite a love seat
because this isn’t love
you’re incredibly beautiful
and remarkably broken
and I could never love you
but I do love these moments,
sweaty in this living room
weaving ourselves together
like being part of a living loom.
And once we’re done
I kiss your arms
and I kiss your neck
and I kiss your shoulders
and I kiss your back
Little nips of intimacy
that make this feel less like a handshake
And then I go home
as per your request.