How Much Love Have I Wasted

How much love have I wasted sitting on the shore divining water as if it were hidden? None.

You prefer a more desperate, degrading kind of love, one that will leave you ruined over, and over again. Like building a house on an eroding cliff, destined to fall, then rebuilding in the same place again, and again.

It is only time, we think. As if it is not precious and we can throw it away like so much soiled paper.

I gave a fragment of a shell to the younger version of myself and said, “Pretend” . As I have been pretending to be brave before I collapse over, and over again into my aching wetness, a void of not you.

It is too late to change things with words, my slut. My dirty, smelly little sin. You loved my fingers and tongue in your arse. My hot piece of. You pretended to open beautifully, a false flower blooming - but you are too narrow, and you burrow into a shallow confine of artifice and escape.

Each slowly measured and sacred lick along your tight lips sent you gushing. I did not use you like a toy to be discarded. I pulled on the pubic hairs you don't have as I tongued my way into what I thought was a future. It sustains me.

I’m still hungry. Like the lust in your eyes and pushing hips when we mated. My butterfly wings engulfed your slit. My engorged clit, battling yours until mine won, sliding in and through, and clit fucking you until you came and then came again.

I remember things that pre-date you. They seem to be lifetimes ago and may be why I love you so. What is not degrading you are intent to destroy. I have learned many things from your lips. Lies, mostly, I think.

We met when I was tilting. You promised it was done and pursued me. I accepted my role on that promise, trusting in truth and strength – because we were of the stars and our destiny was waiting – I should have demanded more.

We said we’ve been together for centuries - passing from body to spirit and back again tumbling over under constant waves to polish ourselves on each other - as our pearls polished each other through scissoring legs and a grinding gravity we thought we could control.

Our orgasmic waves along the shore polished agates, smooth and pretty. I thought we left the dust of past lovers in the receding tide to be mixed into the big lake and ocean of nothingness. The positions of our love determined the weather. Heat lightning. Storms. Quiet rains. Smooth water and sun.

Bird feathers and fish are scattered on our beach. There are smells. It is just outside our bower where you peed on my foot and I into your mouth. Gargling salts. We were in love.

Perhaps it is meant that I be wild, and feral, while you are an English garden. Manicured and pristine, hiding the fecund soil and manure that allows you to grow while I wear it smeared all over me.

You made your secret negotiations while I waited, trusting you to be true. Yet still – I chant spells, whispering into the air that will bring you back to me. Sentimental hindsight or not, you will come to me, and I will take you. Everything comes to me as a whisper. Birds and ravens bring me news. They are watchful. They do not pretend.

Some mornings I think of your collar. And of mine. I think of your soiled knickers and you taking me as I took you – hard. Everywhere. You on your lead wriggling your tail and my jeweled plug bearing a “C”, and your only tattoo - an “R” at the cleft in your cheeks just above your crack. I wore a “C”.

There are soft stories too. We held each other and confessed our past wounds, sorrows, and joys. We told each other our days – heart journaling our commitment to each other. You forgot that in the favor of the past – the recent past, for our own past centuries should have been stronger.

You have written imagined tales to make your leaving seem acceptable and okay. I have a candle in my window lighting your way. It will be there until you return. It is infinite.

So is my love.