sexus

And the body is aflame, and the toes spasm, and the fist clenches and an arm curls inward and arm reaches outward from the middle of a stranger's bed. And wantoness has blinded you so that the body sprawled across your skin has no face and no name. If you could say you were anywhere you would be square in your middle, or some chakra or some such had you been paying attention, but from the middle you radiate. And limbs and lips follow their own accord and crouched in your middle your neck lenghthens and your spine arches.

The charming deference to these foreign hands, all the while following the rote course to coarse pleasure, spark a nerve, deft of touch. And from the middle it's so easy to watch, watch and judge, as the body proffers and the mind tenders, all towards the nexus, all towards the confluence of pulse and flesh, bone and duvet. To wake confused in someone else's tatoos, with his imprimatur on your inner thigh, and days later muscles still happily groaning under his cooling weight.

And then.

To care and to care not. To sing soft lullabies to the ravenous body, to quell the insatiable ego with the numerous and probable reasons as to why we have heard naught from the 28 year old we like to sport fuck until rosy cheeked dawn, to check teeth and nails and armor, to never hunger again, to chase the dawn, like the raven said, evermore.