A Love Story In Movements

A Love Story In Movements

The First Movement:
It came up out of her mouth. Slowly, through the constricted folds of her esophagus. Pushed up over her tongue, sliding thick and sticky against her uvula. Left an acrid taste on her palate, oily and metallic. It scratched at the insides of her cheeks, tried to part them open like curtains. Knocked on the back of her front teeth, as if to ask permission, then squeezed into the narrow crevice between the top and bottom row, and stretched her jaws open on serpent-like hinges. Claws dug dimples into cheeks, and from the damp and clammy depths it rose, this bestial disease. Burgeoning forth in its glorious exit.
The Second Movement:
Sweet cake smiles and sweat soaked 
Suits of sugar ants leaving you
Naked at the end of the day
The Third Movement:
The connection was this; sick. Physical even, like bodily; epidermic. Skins, that is. In layers and through them. A sharing of bodily fluids, of neural passage construction, intangible, explanations and ambiences. It is both conscious and somnambulant. It is innate as it is constructed. And transient, passing in and out and often through. This is interaction, chemical; mystery. An experience beyond one’s self, outside of but at once internal, external, eternal. Transitional, that is; autumnal, the orange falls and the red bleeds. This moment may not remain memorable as minds morph and disintegrate in correlation to the passing of time, and years lap by. For they seem to be racing towards some sort of inevitability. Perhaps we become the inevitability. Perhaps it becomes us.
The Fourth Movement:
And on your wire ligaments I’ll jump your titanium bones though 
who knew you were inhuman when
the pleasure didn’t lessen and the lesson wasn’t sudden
I sulked and skulked 
around your life hoping it would spark 
a jolt
but I am only so many volts and then I’m
acid tapped
glad to know you
tapped that
a plastic eyelash and know that I’ll still come running energizer bunny humping
lovingly caressing synthetic skin molding tight to petal soft I am pink and you are
red casting
bed sheets aside we ride
I am with you and you
are plugged in
to some 
I can’t 
to hack
The Fifth Movement:
October the Eighth,
You have invaded my very molecules. To the calling of your ethereal self. A wash of recollected pleasure lies waiting in my nuclei for your image, a cellular excitement. Biological cells hold a longer memory than the human synapses. But then, with you, we were something more and less than human; for the hindrance of humanity pursues the logic of an immoral mind. We live in a perfectly hedonistic world and our time finds us beautifully corrupt. A loss of self essential. Askewed awareness inevitable. With every sensory excessiveness we imbibed. A passion romanceless and a romance passionless. I came to crave. I craved I came. I became undone and remade by the twist of your wrist. I worshiped your likeness. Never my love, you were my addiction.
The Sixth Movement:
Popsicles and kids cartoons laughing with
What a fireball I said over spilt jenga blocks and
Where the hell were we anyway
The Seventh and Final Movement:
Your pokerface is insanely unreadable (see: mad, cracked, loony) but you don’t seem to know what the cards mean, constantly dissembling the line between blind juggling and calculated deception while drawing distinct toe lines in the sand between this action and that meaning and the lines on your face draw no conclusions while the ones on the table design them. But how can we not help but partake, for a shift is necessary (see: paradigm, perspective, intention). Numb, dumb, and contemplating reaction. You leave a thumbprint at the corner of my right eye while you try to find the correct smile. A wrinkle of the brow just right. Even your O-face is calculated. All the while I am counting decibels. Add here, subtract here; I am trying to break you (see: crack, fracture, fragment). The surreality of your surrender is absolutely delectable. Oops. I have expressed a molecule of affection; a transgression. When I say I don’t know how to feel, I mean this as a lack of sense. A deliberation of the expectation of what feeling should feel like. After all, we always end up in indra’s net and see our selves’ reflections of selves reflection of everything and everyone, pure and unflinching, staring unwaveringly back at us. You surround me; debone, unlearn, demystify and evolve me. I am revealed; naked and inevitably separate. Blue. My lips show that a limit never lasts and a little is never enough. I find you magnetic and cold to the touch. You feel like nothing.  I seek to embody this. I find myself as nothing and nothing inside myself. Nothing but an effigy. And in this, a eulogy.
The Eighth Surprise Movement:
Teddy bears and rainbows, obviously.

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