“In theory she’s still my girl.” The beds concave is now perfectly shifted to my shape. Rolling and turning about, cursed. Consumed by the disease of obsessive thought. I think of steam filled winter bathrooms, open ovens, morning cheeks in the Brooklyn air. My hair, curled and fallen, gently moving along her thin lines, gathering at her stomach. Ends balled up like a python; a thick red pile. The last smile, before lips reach skin, the tip of a nose grazes hips, a mouth breathes salt. Within view, another mouth peels open, a tongue hovers quietly (patient as morning sun.) As I move over her, she looks down at me, the widest eyes filled with the most abundant brown. My eyes, my girl, my moment.. Is gone. I lift my head and move the hair from underneath. The mattress welcomes my knees, my elbows, my side. And all that remains in motion is one simple thought.. That circling thought, grand enough to drive anyone completely, inconceivably mad.
