Write about something else in the morning. Not the way things are between men and women. Not fucking.
I drift in and out for a bit, think of you, think of my cock in your hands, your frictionful lips, the grind of your hips, the caress of your tits, the stupid idea that I won’t wake up clenching my ass at the end of some dream. It gets the thoughts through the brain stem and down where they can manifest into something like satisfaction. A false imitation, like that sneeze. I know what it is, what’s coming, unless I hold it off and cruelly drift some more. Close, no. Close, no. Close, no. Grip control at the tip.
Why the trees, that’s a topic. Why the fucking trees?
Space. Room to breathe. Room to make noise, room to listen to noises. No time to wait, no time for words, no notion of later when now is waiting. Waiting’s for the Amish and the exhaustion of a farm. City boy don’t like the city, likes it where the sun shines pretty, where the river water flows down easy, like my cum.
Big talk.
Until when.
Denial of the emptied mind. Denial of breath. Acceptance of peace. Full blown release.