Resting on my bed, in the insomniac midnight air of the second day of September, I come to you blemished. Bearing sins of six generations of an oblivious Sodom. To sit down with you and disentangle the mystery of a man that holds both our hearts in his arms.
I have thought about you, about the possibility of you being there. And the possibility that the mumble he swallows in the jangle of our lovemaking is an attempt to warn me that there is another like me. Or the stains on his shirt are maps I can trace with my fingers to get to you. Or the keylock on the phone is the wall I need to jump over and find you, squatting, waiting for him. Or the fast pounding of his heart when he is kissing me insanely is a silent sentence that speaks of you.
No, do not inflame in disgust. Do not stand me against a yardstick and calculate my worthlessness. Like you, I have disregarded any possible hint from my conscience that there might be another, except on moments like these. I have hungrily eaten his words with my ears. Thawed into discipleship by this man. I have lost my sanities in a fiery flare of the heart. I have spread my thighs in clean linen, quenching my thirst in his manliness.
Inkdrops 