(no subject)
We don't really fumble to take off eachother's clothing anymore. We now follow the same comfortable routines and the same movements. You watch me as you get me off and hold me close. Our lips touch and stick together. When you are on top of me, I hear your heavy breath in my ear. When I look up all I can see is dark hair, the pores and sweat of your skin on your shoulders and sometimes the gleam of your glasses. I like to close my eyes and try to feel you as much as possible, as weight as movement as smell as breath. The closer you are, the more animal-like you become, breathing in rhythm with us, with yourself. When you come, you fall into syncopation like the drums playing in my car on the way home. Sometimes we lay there, with you still inside me, and sometimes we don't. With our noses cringed dreading the feeling about to occur, you slowly or sometimes quickly; take yourself out of me. You get up and head toward the closet and reach for the door knob, but in its place hang your orange towel. I lay there, on the dampened silhouette of myself, watching you. I can feel you and myself running down my thighs. You always hand me the towel first. I dry myself, continuing to watch you. You turn to the garbage pail between the entrance of your room and the dresser. I hear the freeing of latex from skin and watch your backside tense up. You never leave the room without kissing my face. You then, but not always wander off to somewhere else in the house, usually to the kitchen, where you quench your dry mouth. I lay in your bed and wrap myself in your blankets, listening to the rattle of your fan as it competes with the deafening sound of silence. I wait for you to enter the room again and when you return you lay down next to me and engulf me in moist, warm skin. I can still feel your racing heart beat. I can feel your every thought as you whisper and hold me."I love you." I am not alone