You stood there frothing, working the cliched irresistibility of the Lady in Red. All bosom no hips, you were a gobletesque temptress etched in crystal.
Our lips met, albeit suspiciously, and it was easy to forget how I picked you up by the corner of 2nd and Washington at a Sunday evening bargain.
It was easy to forget that we’d met before, that our stories were printed in jersey shore sands, cutting imperfect shells through pedicured virgins, only to be slapped into silence by the salt of dusk’s waves.
It was necessary to forget your continent of lovers and the infinitesimally slim slash across your diamonds that only I can see. Yes, I inflicted it in a moment of negligence. But you understand, my dear, that it wasn’t my fault. That I wouldn’t have hurt you, if I didn’t …
Words. Forget words, all these words. They seem so pre-pubsecent in their ability to sing our story. You know that intersection between space and time, where life-altering moments slip into blackholes? It exists, I assure you, somewhere down that rugged path you travel down my throat.
Somewhere down that rugged path it’s just you — you and the fluid ease with which you slide into my being, annihilating other worlds into blurry, sepia-toned photos to be stashed in cobwebbed attics that my granddaughter will discover.