Phoning it in is kind of stupid, right?
If you’re going to write something, right it well. Of course that can’t all be done on the first try. Finished master pieces seem like they flow and you can’t help but romanticize the idea of words flowing like water from your fingertips. Perfection pouring out.
But it doesn’t work like that.
Great writers, and great writing, takes effort. It takes pain. It takes time and love and passion. It takes lust and desire. It takes everything in you spread across the page or the screen. It needs to be you. All of you and everything in you.
So when you write, and when I say you I mean me, write. Focus on what you’re doing and write. Take it out of you and write. Pull it from you and write. Make it personal. Make it real. Make it hurt. Make it feel like Sunday morning. Make it feel like the look she gives you when you say something perfect.
Don’t just get something down. Write. Write again. Rewrite it and then write some more.
Circling back to you. Over and over again I’ve been coming back to you.
I need to feed. I’ve got a hunger and looking won’t satisfy it. I need my hands and mouth to get involved. Squeezing and pulling. I want sounds and touch. I need that shiver.
The jolt has got a hold of me. The curiosity. The pounding of my heart and the laser focus of my brain. Nothing else is going to be good enough until I’m full of you. Until I’m satiated. Until I’m wasted with a drunken look on my face having indulged too much, yet not regretting a thing.
I’m inching closer to jumping in the pool.
I’ll have my eyes open.
There won’t be a smile on my face, but I will be licking my lips.
I want you against the wall.
I want you on the bed.
I want you wrapped around me.
I want you pressed tight into me.
I want you when you look at me right before you kiss me.
I want you freshly out of the shower when your hair is still dripping wet.
I want you when you fall asleep in my lap watching movies late on a Saturday night.
I want you to look at me while your dark hair hangs down over half of your face.
I want you when you stare at me when I’ve said something stupid.
I want you when you’re crying because you’re upset.
I want you when you’re crying because you’re happy.
I want you in your shoes.
I want you in your dress.
I want you in your lipstick.
I want you with your rabbit ears and fake eyelashes.
I want you all around everywhere and in between.
I just want you.
Let’s make this about a girl.
What better motivation is there than the kind of girl that takes over your mind and won’t let it go? It wraps around her wrist and swings along with her walk, taking you for the ride as long as you can hold on. Everything she does is noteworthy and you don’t have to strain to find magnificence in the way she bats her eyes or hums a tune.
She doesn’t need you to force it, either. It’s natural. It’s not something she tries to do or you try to do, it just happens.
It happens when you see her face for the first time in the morning. It happens when you’re missing her at night. It happens when her legs are wrapped around your waist and your lips are finding new ways to press against her skin. There is nothing unnatural about the way you fit with the girl. You’re a circle spinning on top of a circle.
You can dance. You can sing. You can do things you never thought you could before, and even if you can’t do them well you lose the fear of looking like a fool.
Because she doesn’t care. All you need is her smile and when she points it at you all of the dumb things you’ve done are just there for laughter and dammit if he doesn’t have the best laugh around.
Let’s make her everything.
It’s dangerous and rarely ends well but while you’re in it, its worth it.
She’s worth it.
I didn’t think about you tonight,
at least until now.
Does thinking about how I’m not thinking about you count as not thinking about you?
I didn’t write about you either.
I have recently but not yesterday,
nor the day before that.
That’s weird, right?
You weren’t in my dreams.
Although I often didn’t dream about you.
Why dream when the real thing was better?
Your lips didn’t race my heart,
or my hands up your thigh in a heated kiss on a cold, cold night.
I’m starting to think that maybe your spell has lifted.
That the magic is gone,
or merely has waned to the point of non-existence.
Our story didn’t didn’t last.
I failed at writing this poem.
You never liked poetry anyway.
I miss that black sweater you used to wear. I think you called it a cardigan or something. I’m not good with fashion and I don’t know all of the specific names of all the little pieces of clothing, but I loved that black sweater. You wore it perfectly.
It would hug your sides. It showed off how amazing your hips are, the way they hour glassed down your frame. Every button would be fastened from top to bottom and it would squeeze around your waist closer than anything else in the world. That sweater was perfect. I miss it so much.
The fabric was so soft. It wasn’t new or anything but it was soft. I loved unbuttoning it slowly. Do you remember the way I used to fiddle with each of the buttons when I was undoing it? Looping it in and out as I circled my thumb around before finally letting it go. There were six buttons. I remember because I would sometimes count them out loud as they finally slipped free of my fingers.
I remember the last time I saw that sweater too. You’re the reason it’s gone. You decided to surprise me. I stopped into your place on the way home from work. It was late and I called you and asked if you were awake. You said, “barely.”
“I’m coming in.”
“I’ll be asleep,” you said.
You weren’t in bed though. I went into your room and didn’t see you until you came out of the bathroom. All you were wearing was a pink thong and that soft black sweater with the six buttons. The V-neck cardigan that sloped down your chest and hugged your body the way I liked to at night. The piece of clothing that pressed up right underneath your breasts and seemed to hold up your cleavage and dare me to dive into them.
I ripped that black sweater off of you. I didn’t bother with the buttons. I didn’t bother with the fabric. I just ripped it off of you. I picked you up and carried you to the bed and we had some of the best sex we’ve ever had.
I really miss that black sweater.
I wish the way you used to look at me was a drug I could overdose on, then I could get lost in the only world I want to be a part of. The world where your stare was the reason my body could move. The world where your lips was the reason I could breathe. The world where you were the reason I lived lives and spoke words.
I wish I could over dose into your stare and never come back. Don’t ever keep your eyes from me, the withdrawal could destroy me.
I’m in bed with you.
Again. Because we always end up in bed.
It doesn’t matter if we argue or feign indifference, we always find our way out of our clothes and against each other’s skin.
I’m going to drift off to sleep in a few minutes but I wanted to capture this moment. You’re asleep, freshly fucked until my legs burned with quit but I refused. I never tap out first.
I wanted to save this moment in my mind at how beautiful you are and what I would give to be lying next to you, just like this in 30 years thinking these same thoughts. Hips worse for wear. Legs would be burned out long before I’d want them to, but you still there next to me to watch sleep afterwards.
So goodnight, gorgeous. I hope your legs are as sore as mine will be in the morning, and I hope you never leave my bed.
You make me a bad writer. My words are clunky and short. They’re like stuttered reaches of my hand for your thighs. You’re turning me into a carnal being, only interested in feasting on your flesh with my lips and tongue. Come here, pretty. I want to devour you.
It isn’t always like this. When I’m remembering you it’s all about flowers and eternal beauty. It’s about love and depth. But when I can smell your lavender coconut shampoo and see the darkness painted along your eyes every coherent thought sinks. The claws come out. The teeth grow long and sharp. That red cape never looked so good on you.
I get stupid around you. My mind grows duller. The tip to my pencil breaks and all I can think about is the way my hands need to hold you and my lips burn unless they’re kissing you.