Before, During and After

We never said much; before, during or after. We only had conversations when we couldn't see or touch eachother. Not just one person. All of them. That must be the reality I imply. That intimacy has nothing at all to do with flesh. That pleasure and sentiment exist in separate worlds.

I used to think about it sometimes. Saying something. Before or during or after. But the words would only rotate in my head until one touch or another blotted them out.

If one is and always has been so compelled to write what they're thinking it's obviously because they have trouble saying it. And while words might mean a lot to me, to most they're just words. And actions might speak, but they just don't say enough. Sometimes a voice is required. No matter how you act out how you feel, it still needs to be articulated if anyone is ever to take you seriously.

I used to imagine during and after how different it might've been if words could happen. Break their threshold as they'd broken mine. But penetration is much easier to take than it is to give.

Before all was always fog and sidewalk cracks. Stepping gingerly over them. Following their course by rote. Because sight was not to be relied upon in those situations.

Experience sent memos, but I never read them. Because always at the time one moment seemed more than enough. That if I could have that I'd not need another one.

Before was always kinda sad. Asking myself why I wanted to sample what I knew I couldn't have.

During always left me lost in an emotional storm. The pleasure and the pain fronts colliding in a frenzied eruption.

And after never seemed so bad. It was finally over. Whatever it was we had supposedly been to eachother. And there'd be plenty of time again for getting over.

We never said much. Not myself or any of them. I used to think about saying sometimes.

But now I realize I had been saying all along. Just no one listened.