The Tao of Sex

The phone bill was so uninteresting lately. But french films always made the world smaller for her. Hot showers left running as our bathrobes are coming off.

Sex is a violence of a sort. Stabbing at the gods inside their skin. Never making a wound. Drawn by this broken pencil.

Drawing with it. As if I'd never loved them. Or needed to. I didn't. You know. I didn't tell the hare to lose. But I never bet on him to win. The threads on her mini skirt asking coyly to be undone. In bouts of chess too much like the conversations we used to have. Mazes of flesh create the passages. And the dead ends.

When there's nothing left to say I'm most vocal then. She remembers the boots. Chunky heels castrating her lovers. As though they were actually hers. She remembers the perfume. The smell of anticipation. As she pretended to undress.

She remembers feeling found, yet still being lost.