He is on isle 3.

I am not following him I just know.

He is on isle 11.

I am not following him I just know.

He is on isle 1.

He is on isle 1.

He is on isle 1.

I’m not following him I can see him.

He speaks. He jokes. He laughs.

We share inside jokes.

He worries for me.

I want to love him.

I want to know him well enough to love him. He’s my friend but I don’t know his intimacies.

I don’t know who he is after dark.

I know I love his smile.

I know I love his laugh.

I know I love how he walks with a confident swagger that he would deny.

I know I love his asshole facetious attitude.

I know I love how he doesn’t judge me.

I’m sure I would love his girlfriend if I ever met her.

Up and down for function.

Back and forth for attention.

Or is the other way around?

I’ve forgotten my study guide.

I don’t remember anyone telling me there was a test or a contest so I didn’t study... or expect judgement.

What about diagonal is that for extra credit?

If I carve the word love on my inner thigh and wear jeans all summer am I begging for attention?

I didn’t break out the rainbow sharpies and glitter glue because I didn’t feel the need to get oohs and ahhhs like first grade art project.

The day glow red streaks on my arms are not for your pity or sympathy. They are a lack of prime (covered) real estate. They are not to make you uncomfortable. They are to make me uncomfortable.

A pressure release valve is a type of safety valve used to control or limit the pressure in the system that might otherwise build and create system failure.

This is that.

Slow does not always mean soft.

They are not synonymous and should not be twisted, tangled and braided together like a little girls hair for a day on the playground.

03:46

Slow can be the excruciating pain in your wrists as someone places themselves a little to close to your breathing space. Their mouth just close enough to not touch you. Their weight forcing the air from chest and willing your spine into the floor.

03:48

Slow can be wondering when the last time you dusted was as you watch the ceiling fan spin. Trying desperately not to notice uninvited hands crawling in between your thighs. A mouth taking bites of something they were not offered samples of.

03:49

Slow can be looking up and seeing greedy eyes. Your wrists held prisoner so tightly their breaking would be a welcome distraction. Looking down to another set of hungry eyes. Mouth on your heat. Devouring you like a cheap buffet that serves pizza on Tuesday to keep the kids happy.

03:51

Slow can be thinking ‘god damn, I’m not enough for myself, there can’t really be enough of me to share’ as your most private boundaries are crossed. Over and over and over.

03:54

Slow is when they switch places and you forget breathing is a requirement.

03:57

Slow is when your body betrays you and sends off bottle rockets and fireworks and your muscles contract and your eyes roll and hips arch and NO I didn’t ask you to help them!! It’s science. It’s nerves. It’s synapses. It’s not your fault.... it’s... fuck you. It’s not fair.

03:59

Slow is when you are told to swallow the grand finale. Twice.

04:02

Slow is the sound of jeans and belt buckles and laughing and ‘lets go grab a beer’ and ‘clean yourself up for fucks sake’

04:03

Death can be slow.

I love her like you love Christmas cards and wrapping paper. I love her in theory and for moments at a time. I love her like things you don’t keep.

She is broken and damaged and shattered and I want to run my hands through her hair like glitter and see if it cuts me like broken glass.

She is rough around all her beautiful curves. Eyes always bright from constant crying. I want to kiss her cheeks and see if she tastes like the ocean. Dip my toes in the edges of her water.

I want to explore her and find all her broken seashells or glass splinters both beautiful and dangerous and best tossed away so as not to damage people.

I want to put her in a box under the edge of my bed and pull it out in the middle of the night when I’m alone and watch her shine in the dark under the reflection of the moon. Like broken glass does so well.

I want him and he is not mine.

I know I want him because he smells like a freedom.

His laugh wraps around my chest and squeezes laughter out like bubbles filtering through a fish tank, rapid and unclean.

He is nice and not at all inappropriate and implicates nothing, ever. Still I forget that butterflies can hibernate until I feel the sudden migration in my lower belly when he says my name. The heat between my thighs does not care to distinguish which species do which.

I want his hands on my breasts while I swallow his words whole. I want to arch into him and feel his heat. Like teenagers who want to do IT but are scared to take off their clothes.

The three of us sit at night passing joints and tales from work. I don’t really care to smoke but I want to be one of the cool kids and put my mouth were his words have paused just briefly.

I’m not naive. I want him because his words are always spun with sugar and coated in southern drawl.

I am not naive. I want him because he has never touched me so I have not felt his hands lined with steel at the speed of bullets. No I have never been shot.

I am not naive. I want him because he is not mine.

There is a moment between the last drop and the first that is almost palpable. Two ticks of the second hand. One long blink. The time it takes to inhale.

In that fleeting moment I try to remember the steps to the dance, the words to the song...how to smile.

If I tilt my head just right or laugh in just that particular way I did when we first met maybe you will see me.

There is a moment between the last drop and the first that is almost palpable. The buzz before the lightbulb dies. The time it takes the tear to fall. The time it takes to exhale.

In that trembling moment I remember. I never knew the steps to the dance, the words to the song... how to smile.

I’ve tilted my head so much I’m standing on it and I’ve laughed so much it sounds like a scream in disguise.

All you see is the first drop of the next drink. All you hear is the craving, the addiction calling your name. It’s okay. I’ll wait for the moment between the last drop and the first.