You only felt pain radiating through your bones, your fingers tight on the steering wheel, your other hand pressing down against your thigh to calm the ache.
That love is still there, moving through amygdala to hypothalamus, tangled in my hair, sticky on my thighs.
If you wear night-vision goggles, you can see certain wavelengths behind your sternum; infrared radiating through hairline cracks in your heart.
I remember the first time I left town after having a boyfriend. I don’t know if he was really a boyfriend because he still had a wife.
That night we fought about his wife. We were drunk. He had to buy the beers because I was only eighteen.
Remember being seventeen in that coffee place across the street from the bookstore when he told you it couldn’t happen again, and you said if he changed his mind to let you know. How he went down on you in that cheap motel in Ensenada with your friend in the other bed and it felt…
It was too difficult and familiar tonight. I didn’t want to call you back but your message said you’d finished rehearsal and you were hungry and wanted to meet us. You joined our table, tried to join in our laughter. The lights are bright at Denny’s. It’s not junkie light. Not the kind of place…
Sex became my way of connecting with the world; of feeling human. At the same time, it also kept me safely insulated. I’m not sure why I liked it that way but I think it might be because too many men died and I didn’t want to feel that kind of pain anymore.