What I Love Best: A Tale of Woe

I love a single ice cube being slid up the curve of my spine. Sometimes, I can hardly stand it, tears come to my eyes.

The feel of a breath blowing softly along the slick trail, makes my nerves tingle and jostle and the buds of the tongue feel like braille across skin and the toes twist in agony so wonderful, never want it to end.


But when it's over, I let it go. He's left his mark and I've left mine and there's no other story that can be written about it. We part ways and I don't look back. Instead, I draw pictures trying to remember what it was like to be happy and see his face and feel his touch and hear his breathing and my body sings a song I keep trying to forget and the melody is like a tangled weave of two guitars that trade the same chorus but play different chords on a different sheet of music that drifts in the wind and is plucked from the air by the most talented drummer who drums the rhythms out on soft leather and imagines a world where beat and song are the highest art forms and plays until his fingers bleed and he must consider stopping or playing through the pain, but of course he chooses to continue his art until the skin on the drum is so thin, it breaks, and the guitars tangle and their notes fly and the players riff and the melody is frenzied and my body sings a different song and the mind plays tricks on memory and melody and the touch is different and I awake to a blank page and I stare at it through the blurry haze and I make myself a cold drink and stare into my glass and listen to the ice clink at the top and I close my lips to the words that want to come bubbling up and I put the glass down and I stare straight ahead.

Trust me, it makes sense.