my finger in her mouth
her bite marks on my neck
the way she said "oh god"
(embellished, I suspect)
her scent still on my hand
her curls upon her shoulders
and her nose
which I kissed
and kissed again

all these things
come together
for the glory
of
fuck
and help me to forget
the damage done
and the other girls
and the broken loves
that can no longer come
to any good

but in the morning
as she strokes my cock
a message on my phone
comes
it is from my ex
asking
"are we still friends?"

Timing
is nearly everything

I kiss her like I'd always wanted her
and always would
and she has the energy
of bursting dams
but
once departed from my king size bed
and the crown gently lifted from my head
I returned into no thought
with beers,
guitars,
and grandstand sport
this is the considered
affection
of a man who gives himself poetic names:

Good morning, I am your crippled lover,
Terminal Moraine