Sometimes when we’re alone and I’m holding her in my arms… it might have to happen on a bright and sunny workless Sunday morning while we’re both just trying to recharge in the living room, pounding down coffee and Hennessy––laying low from the real world for as long as we can. I’m drawing a portrait of you with a piece of charcoal that I found in your kitchen drawer, but the portrait looks nothing like you in my opinion. You tell me don’t ever forget what has made me forgive her, the last one who, you tell me now, breaks your heart. We could stay put here all week long if we wished to let ourselves be babes to the favor of Godsent weather, now summoned once again, through another desperate prayer in mid December. The light of the sun––it beams into the room through the square frame of the large window behind us, and it’s bright enough within this portal and the casting formidable ray of urine white-yellow light shining through it, that you can see dust particles in the air, dancing with flaughter and the strangest proclivity as they find paths to the ground. The heat of the sun is sinking into my flesh and your hair feels at least 110 degrees. You’re under my arm and resting your legs over my own as mine rest upon the plane of the coffee table stacked like 2 twisted vines. I push my lifeless lips against your temple, and I blow hot air from my curling top lip. You tilt your head and I kiss your hair. You murmur like a child. I start singing just barely above a whisper, the lyrics to Project Bitch by Cash Money Millionaires. You take the charcoal out of my hand and you push away my drawing board. It falls onto the ground. You throw your right leg out of your bathrobe to lock it right over both legs of my own, just before you pull me into yourself with your arms. You proceed to blow me

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