I forgot how well her hair spilled on my pillow. Like rivers my mattress and cheap dollar store fabric heart are too stubborn to soak in. My mind housed such savage wants of her. Cruel and deliberate forms of torture that make ill use of hands and tongues. The sight of her skin sends my blood rushing to where I resist but God intended. But His grace is as infinite as my jest, and I make the most of ten dollar bottles of wine and Spotify playlist. Dress our gentle sin in such a way right and wrong become It’s-My-Turn.
“So why did you call?” She asked.
“I’m in the mood to hate myself,” I said. “And you’re better at making me do that than I am.”
We should have never happened, and if I could take us back, I probably wouldn’t. Regrets are for the young and un-assured, and I’m old enough to rent a car. I used to worry, when I was more lonely, that should it all be said and done that I may start looking for her in strangers. The way poets write about loving made me expect some fallout or debris. Like some lovely hell-sent angel might share her weird and heart with me, have the beautiful courage to finally reveal herself, and I would be ashamed at my disappointment to see another girl wasn’t there.
“I can never take you serious,” She said.