I raise my glass to the people with full resumes & adequate experience yet lack the sheet of paper that exempts them from inferior pay. To Those of us actively hunting for our purpose under the umbrella of others. It’s time to dance in the rain.
There’s something so inviting in the wind. The way it rustles the leaves, kisses my skin, and beckons me to follow its patterns in the sky. Chimes jingle in the distance, reminding me of the twilight sneaking into my window as we cracked our eyes after a night of passion.
If what they say is true, 'Home is where the heart is.' And every time you look around, he's with the same someone else, his heart is not with you.
I’ve been cradling my grief like a newborn baby. He’s mine. No one can see him, no one can touch him, and if he does somehow make it into someone’s view, you can’t tell me what to do with him. Some days it seems he’s getting big and growing to be too much for me to nurture alone. Other days, most days, I manage with him just fine. Today we’re getting ready for work and I pray he behaves himself.
Can we make love under the crackling thunder? The droplets of rain would evaporate when they kiss our bare skin.
Our taste is on the tip of my tongue; our scent lingers on my lips and nose. A tingle remains on my backside to remind me of the way you popped my ass to perfect my arch. I want to please you in every way.
I’m feeling antsy in this heat. I should be in the nude. Your hands should be in the crooks of my knees. My knees should be pressed into my ribs while your phallus massages my insides. The sound of coqui add to the soundtrack of our love making.
Remember when I started smoking? We smoked together my first time. I used to spend the nights on the town and the days walking in the park before our love affair with Mary Jane infiltrated my world. There were days the sun didn’t kiss my skin. We, instead, spent hours on the couch laughing over shotguns and zombies. We shared kisses infused with whiskey and cognac. Fresh herb stained our lips and finger tips. What a life.
When I find my muse, we’d likely spend a brief season together. It would be long enough for me to be inspired to write a book yet short enough for me to only know and adore his best qualities. Before the fruits sour and the skies gray, my muse will be gone. His absence would inspire yet another book, I’m certain.
A smirk crept across his face as he settled into his seat. He appeared to be reflecting on a special moment. I wondered if it were about a special someone or a special place. I find that to be the most remarkable aspect of speculation. I spent our brief train ride considering different explanations with the understanding that every conclusion could be wrong.