12:25:07

1:20am. The plot lines thicken in the molasses applicated frown lines on the brow of his crossed face. In the opening sequences we see his hand half-cupped and forced into the slit of her mouth, him stabbing her in hate and angst between the legs with his mighty penmenship, raping her voice of a scream, speechlessly substracting any conscious consonant from her vocal cavity.

He never is asked his name for it is a useless enzyme he wishes was altered, we can see his teeth are decayed, his cowardly movements swaying and ripening to a nod that wraps its' nauseatic hips around the folds of the cotton sheets and shouts and shouts back and forth playing tug-of-war with her emotions, with the sunrise, it's just four-tunate that it's nearly dawn, and he withdrawls in temptation and harvests her last breath in the vice of his rosined, youthless, mannacles.

Some may say our felon is a thief, but has he not stolen that which ws so freely pushed in front of him. Her pink pantie strip tease, an image for you




a perfectly shaven lunchbox
of adolescent enjoyment,
a harvest for the farmers feast,
and when he extends his
God-sized love to her, she
threatens his heartbeat

and forces him to protract his finite temper into an assortment of moans and grumbles.

He puts his clothes on and says he'll leave, answers a deaf phone ring, and eventually regrets his life, hangs a noose for himself in a door jamb, and swings out his lifes' sentence. "I love her, she Loves me not."

It goes on like this, occasionally the fuck in airplane bathrooms, sometimes he allowed to wet his finger beneath the slip of her dress, he encourages her that is actively involved in her. She know that he is not just manifesting her as a physical construct.

He denotes that her flavors are elongate his breath, rest his heart rate, and slow his thinking, he is happiest with her, and stays awake at night lying in the presence of his extended pleasure-the presence of her. He wishes to not waste any moments, for he is sure that she will sear his fate, as she does, as they all have done to him.

On one particular day they travel to a mall, he wears jeans and a quarter-length sleeved grey t-shirt with an equilateral triangle and the date 1973 imprinted on the logo, she wears a grey long-sleeve shirt and jeans as well. They enter into an Abercrombie & Fitch and move quickly to the fitting rooms. Whenever they copulated in public places he made sure she was always pleased prior to entry.

The slow frequent hum of her post-pleasure bliss cradled his flesh, his inner-monologue could understand the dialect of her inverse dialogue. Together they were always solid, and apart they were vacant. Perhaps this is why they always endured grave misunderstandings apart.

He regrets not taking photographs of them together all the time, not capturing their mutual existance. But perhaps that was the Royalty of their positions.....his frequent trips to the garage for soda, her cuddling wrap around back massages, his nect line kissing, and her drowning sleepless surrender, and yet the list goes on with her Pink Sugar parfume, his regular routine, and an end-table, final night, close curtain-call for a subdued never sent letter post-dated to Aphrodite and collecting happy thoughts on cherry-colored lips, illyiac hips, long drives down the coast in a rental route that exponentially grew to be a fascination for discouragement, flailing its' overgrown dishonesty and life-sized chastity lies to cover-ups and blankets, marketed wishes on fallen star birthday cake candles that washed up on the self-serve incandescent decorations that he blew out on a birthday cake, a fwesssh....and never came true.

Perhaps we can derive our own expierence from a story such as this , perhaps it holds are coldest nights at the end of our naked fingertips, and in the future we listen to our instincts instead of growing past our inocculous obscure infidelity, our desire to be man and woman, morning at dawn.