Bad Girl

Bad Girl

I'm trying to find the leather straps
that bound my wrists with yours still
heavy from the inertia of your flesh.
It's the salt of memory, the smell of
sweat on skin pinned down by pain and
moaning for release that leaves me torn
between distance and desire. I didn't put
my feelings into words that night because
they weren't innocent. I wasn't making love
to you. I was fucking you. There's a
difference. I've noticed that fucking
someone is best when you're feeling real
good as well as when you're feeling really
bad. Your body takes over and reminds you of
all the things you've taken for granted, things
you buried and tried to forget. With it comes
its own knowledge, its own will.

Don't judge me too harshly. We both have
experienced deep loss. We've slept alone
and had our widowed hearts snapped in two
like a stem. We've been uprooted into darkness
and obscurity until we finally succumbed to the
inevitable. The world turns and the circumstances
of our lives vary with every hour. Soon you too will
drain the pictures from you head until you find
nothing but emptiness in your soul. New York
isn't such a bad place to say goodbye. There will
be other bodies spouting hands trembling with
yours in the night. And you'll see her face, just as
I see his, your love as familiar as your first time,
until winter turns the walls blue and you drown in
the ghosts of ragged shadows. There will be failure
in every choice. And you will never stop wanting
what you can never have.