Confections

We probably didn't walk that far. A few times around the earth with bandages on all ten toes. An anchor in each pocket. That was the way he talked. Laden with years surpassing his age. That was the way he kissed. Lonely. And childless. That was the way he fucked. Like he had something to prove to himself. That he wasn't as old as he felt. That it wasn't too late.

He knew where to rub and what to lick, but it was a beaten path. He'd try to feel, but the package always got in the way. What once was heaven only earth again. Soil between our toes. Footprints all over the bed. Leading away from.

I never faltered for conversation when we talked. Because we were always wasted. That parody of ourselves that had led to all those Sunday afternoons. Painted toenails in tube socks. Armpits yawning for their kisses. Little girls seducing grown men. His bed stroking the walls with a desperate rhythmn. While I laid beneath him. A gnarled tootsie roll. Still in its paper. Confident I'd never be tasted.