Flowings of Your Everlasting Taffyman

Sometimes I want to read into the words of the story, want to paint them upon my experience. That’s how the vampires in each story become my friends, that’s why I miss them when the book ends. It’s harder when the sentiment resonates, like when the activist writes her poem of inner requests, and each line presents a thought I’ve kept hidden, and she ends it with a question; “can you listen while I feel this? Again? Again?”

And I’m wondering what you are doing tonight, in your human bed, tossing and turning to the day’s inner consciousness, wrestling and rolling with the unspoken, the mistaken, the fear of needing, and also the desire of it. And I’m wondering if you’re lonely, when you awake to a startle, or if the emptiness beside you is just a new opportunity for tomorrow. And I’m wondering how I could safely worm my way inside your sheets, press my skin to your skin, and feel the beat of your heart so that I’d know just when to react, and tighten the muscle of my own, squeeze out the joy and longing before you steal them from me.

Because I’m finding it harder each day, to pull back. Despite my attempts to fortify with bricks of angst, with spears of cynicism, with that moat of realism full of crocodiles swimming by. But they look so beautiful atop this vaporous fantasy, and your stories are lulling, your smile enticing, your hand so warm when you offer it to mine. And sometimes it feels like torture to deny your offering to dance, even when I know it’s just a dream.