I was inspired by reading a piece by William Burroughs to explore the way that the mind plays with remembering events that happened or were imagined and the jumpy quality that thoughts and memories have.   


You are late but we do meet up and walk down the street. You point out landmarks you have fit yourself into so I cannot separate you from these places – shop full of kites, illuminated pizza sign, head shop, then, the destination: the poetry book store for the open mic. We sit and watch the poets. You sit beside me. I can’t tell when you’re looking at me or the poets, but at times the wind brushes up against the nape of my neck and space grows expectant, as though our proximity could produce lightning. You don’t touch me. You do touch me. Your hand slides across and strikes me. We are not listening to the poets; we are fucking in the bookstore. I smell clean jungle predators. We part with a hug, with intention of meeting up again, soon, later that night. I go home and light candles, wash my body and rub amber into my pulse points. I change clothes several times. I sit in the dim. You are outside. You sneak up to the room. We sit and I discover constellations in the thick glitter of your eyes. We fall down and mush into each other. My heart pounds. I get a text message to meet you in town. I blow out the candles. We go to your place. I am already too hot for pleasantries. You are wearing a black shirt. I am now in your apartment. We don’t make it to the bed. We don’t fuck. We lick each other. I taste cannabis flowers in your sweat and you worship at the doors of my temple. You fuck me with your fingers. You shape my pleasure like a sculptor. I decide the waiting is too hard. I decide to rest. I blow out the candles. I hear you outside the open window. I peer out and see your curly dark hair. I go open the door. We are suddenly ravenous in the hot dark. There are only hands and mouths. I am dreaming of meeting up with you in the morning. You stay the night but need to leave early. My phone is so quiet. I flip it open often. It has not been disturbed by your message. You went to kiss me goodnight but were not able to close the sex. We have opened the doors. I am moaning my name into your mouth. I am naked. I am unbuttoning my jeans. You are making pilgrimage. I wake again. It is very early morning. We are lying outside, watching the meteor shower in the park. You hold yourself above me. I can feel the movement of moments. I wake up to your phone call. I describe the house: pale green with a picket fence. I wait by the window. I can’t wait any longer. I don’t have any condoms. We hug, my body pressed into you, not long enough. Please. You run your fingers up the back of my neck. I can’t hear the poet reading. My eyes are closed. We are already fucking. My phone vibrated but I didn’t notice. Your sweat tastes like cannabis flowers. Your eyes are the sky above me. I name your constellations. You tell me there will be a meteor shower in the southeast. I go lay in the park with you. I can’t even see the sky. Your proximity is distracting. I decide to go to sleep. You aren’t calling me.

About jake.forrest

Poet. Songwriter. Etc. View all posts by jake.forrest

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