Sunday morning blues. I dreamed of you last night. Reminiscing on conversations between breast and lips. I forget the actual language you speak, it’s on the tip of my tongue the way you wore me that night. It’s some island in the Caribbean, but the importance is irrelevant at this time. The bed is empty and it’s taking everything in me not to say I wanna share another Sunday morning with you. Certain memories are not embedded in you the way are in me and I think that’s where our disconnect lies. The only time we really speak is when the hunger is no longer deniable and we feast on each other. You know, you really are delicious and I appreciate the back rubs when I’m enjoying you.
Life is sad sometimes, my lover. But we can’t ponder on the intangible.
As you have so effortlessly taught me.
I’ll always love the way you wear an afternoon sunset.