obsession is a player
i am adrift in the face, eyes, hands, body, cock, balls, bush, ass, ‘soul’ of a person. i’ll call him A. i wake up to thoughts of him. i go to sleep the same way. never out of mind thought out of sight. we don’t spend a lot of time together, but when we do there is a lock on the chord between us that no noise, conversation or view can interrupt. this is of course nothing new in my life, or his. but when the magnifying glass positions itself above the heart and soul of the beloved, all else recedes. obsession is a focus as scary as the face on a 9th inning closer. predictably, after months of A, B takes his place. it isn’t a rapid transition, or fickle, but the more time i spend with B, the more i lose track of A. divergent lives, divergent worlds and the revolving romantic door dislodges he who was once all consuming. soon B supersedes A in all areas. i don’t see A at all until one night he unexpectedly appears backstage. i don’t recognize him. i can’t for the life of me remember his name. i am shocked. not even his fucking name! who is this, i wonder? who the fuck is this guy who seems to know me so well? the pattern is a cyclical and a cynical one: A overtaken by B who, not soon after though i can’t remember when, is replaced by C. a love whore is what i am.
This is an excerpt from my book, The Paragraphs — Cutlass Press
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