Flood

Salle de Bain

His.

Burrowing deeply, the purpose of such memory is to embed- tick-like and secure
There is no loosening of detail, no easing up on the muscular whisper,
I am in that circumstance from the moment I discovered its protrusion
Some part of me, no matter how small has been living there since awareness struck.

Yesterday,

I came back again, to a place where magnetism existed, based solely upon my need
My mind is an orchestra of assumption, I touch his belongings and I am transported.
How to confess without revealing?
This is ridiculous, this compulsion to express, why?
To edit is to disturb what it is that I am truly trying to reveal.

Fuck it.

I enter, looking to trade; money for the removal of time-worn materialism.
Instructions are given, I, having taken, move about in an orderly fashion-
Looking to execute what is requested, I hate this job; despite the necessity of it.
In making good use of my memory, I operate- dutifully bound, wrapped in fantasy.

Sense of Smell:

He has separate sleeping quarters, his own bathroom, I cannot help to bathe in that reality
Grossly inadequate, as I type around my thoughts, I squirm in indecency
Is this wrong? Volumizing my own need with what may be the needs of another?
Holy fuck, all sacrilege and damnation do nothing to control me;
The burst of my own mental masturbation DOES NOTHING.
His after shave, I opened it twice, the robust aroma of which took me directly to his neck
I don't even know this man, where the fuck is my shame?

I Have None.

His little white shelf, his masculine orderliness, years of trained habit; mastered
What else has he mastered? Has he mastered his own morning wood? Possess does he-
The wish to have someone do that for him? What, at that age, passes the scope of his needs?
What, if any, is held captive within the moat of marriage? Does he give a voice to his body?
If so, does he listen? Is he heard? By himself? Her? Who the fuck am I to wonder?

MotherFucker.

These needs, they are a motherfucker. Mine. His. WhoTheFuckEver's.
My lack of male attendance, writhing in the moment that I tune into his lonely bed.
I want to find myself laying there at 3am, flushed in the baritone wave of his groaning.
Fucked by the brunt of all his pent-up sexual aggression- if he has any

Bi-Monthly.

Every two weeks, she says she needs me.
What to do now that I am involved with his 'belongings'?
Making love to my thoughts while cleaning his bathroom, knowing that he strips down naked there
Trying to smell his razor with my eyes... Who the fuck ever heard of such things?
Today is the first morning after... The lingering effect of his lifestyle has revamped his package;

It has plummeted from huge to Enormous.

Oh My.

My parting thought here is; I'd like him to clean my walls with the maximum scrubbage of his Cock.
I've got ten years of sexual memory that await erasing.

Come...

Never...

Take it away, then what?
Move further from what you love?
Or delve deeper into what you never knew?
I want to place these somewhere...
Give them a home.
Meander down that cerebral pathway,
Exploring a valley where in truth- there will not ever be limits-
Until I die.

So here I will store them,
Those case files of my mind
Where I finagle to the best of my ability
The outcome of...
What may never be.