torn, dotted & cut.

In the absence of fairytales, fornicators of love, fortunate sons, I welcomed him with grandeur. Leaving rows of light for him to come for me upon the earliest of dawns. We were alabasters, counteracts, bartering my hips for his hand in a ceremony held on the mouth of the mississippi. I traded mercy for the meticulous actions of wedding and woeing. We were more dignified than demoralized, more dilettante than debutaunte and at times righteous in our praises. I’d offer him my skirt in fist on the eve of new snow, guided and invited by feburary’s empathy. It would be a cold night indeed.

His breaths were quick and filled with contempory ideas, spitting resin and charcoal grey on the pavement. His words were short, abbreviating and designating sentences for me to cup and hold in my chest. His hands were worn as the pattern on my pink spread were torn, dotted and cut. My thighs signed with bites and my tights cleverly wrapped below his knees and there we were, on an edge, rocking a boat, basking in boisterous seas. His lips leaving my hips to lead.