Butterfly and Brittle Bones
So, was it a good fuck? Did she come home Saturday night slightly drunk, excited with something new happening in her life, frenzied after being centre of attention for the whole evening, did she smile softly for the first time in months, tension dissipating, the house feeling like home again, structures, objects in their proper place? Maybe you even touched slightly, passing each other as one went toward the kitchen the other the living room. She flirted with you, looking girlish again, like she used to, like the woman she was when you first fell in love. She has the alcoholic glow of unburden around her. An aura of excitement.
Fingers touch. You’re horny, of course. You’re always horny. You said you’d been missing me. Feeling the burn of distance and need, telling me of how you dream of us. You kiss. She has soft lips. Who could not be tempted? You need touch, the feel of love on your skin. And surely this is right? And easy. Best for everyone. Your kiss is hesitant. To your surprise she responds in full. She is almost pliable in your arms, unlike the woman of the last few months who has been as brittle as bones. You push her towards the bed. Your bed. The bed. Clothes unpeeling till your cock is hard. And always there are unthoughts in your head that you cannot acknowledge.
You enter her—this is too urgent for tender and playful foreplay. It feels good after all these months. And safe. Familiar. The cunt you have always known.
Afterwards you talk. And she is tender. She has you. You’ve come to her as she wanted, weak, needy, brandishing your white feather of cowardice. You’ve melted.
Gradually you remember me. And guilt begins, tugging at you, like the pull of too many grasping fingers scraping at your skin. It’s too much again. Everything is too much. And the most expendable solution will work. She is reality—a brittle, unpalatable reality—I an impossible dream.
To you I am a ghost, nebulous, ephemeral and filigree like butterfly wings. I will slowly fade.