Poetry, One-Shots, and Song Lyrics

Wink

-and then, as most folk would logically at this point, we had sex.

Of course, I could go into detail here, get all descriptive for you Fifty Shades types, but you'll be surprised to learn that if I try to write anything like that it'll come out less sexy and exciting and more like a Nat Geo wildlife documentary.

So, just try and picture that. Body to body, all sweaty and uncomfortable.

"You like that?" I ask. She lies.

I don't care.

"You like that?" She asks. I lie.

She doesn't care.

You kiss, you touch things, you apologize once or twice, and then you're laying in place for a minute, thinking. Smoking a cigarette, maybe. Exhausted, but connected, and you contemplate whether or not you did alright. Usually the cigarette answers that, but if she doesn't smoke, you'll never know. It's actually a very decent reason to go after nicotine addicts exclusively.

-but, there we were.

In the falling action of a Shakespearean play where the story's plot takes a dark turn and "to be or not to be?" is subsituted with "where do I ejaculate without this being weird?" and in the end Hamlet just went for her back. She smiled at me.

We kissed for a moment, but only a moment. I tried not to think about what was just in her mouth a minute ago. Then she rolled out of my bed, pulled on her ripped black skinny jeans, and said she had to go. I said goodbye, told her I loved her, reflexively. I didn't mean to.

She winked at me.

It was her way of saying "I love you too". I respected it. The strength to respect the power behind words and phrases was one I always lacked. Love, hate. They don't mean shit to me. She knew that.

Out the two-pane window she climbed, a hoodie on, with a smile on her face she tried to hide. I did good. I could tell. Or maybe she loved me. Maybe it was both.

Either way, she's not the type of girl to kiss and dwell, and she's definitely not the type to tell you her opinion unless she's absolutely sure it's a negative one. I respected that, I really did, and it didn't matter to me, because I know her well enough to know how she thinks. I know her well enough to know that if she could find it in her bent little heart to trust anyone, that anyone would be me. Or maybe that's what I tell myself.

Sometimes, for a second, I wish I cared which one it was.