It’s funny how synapses work–the way our mind draws connections to memories; how the olfactory triggers the me even my mind cannot remember, the way the back of my tongue has become a gustatory repository for everything that once tasted of you and everything tasted with you.
10. 24. 305. My mind doesn’t understand numbers. It doesn’t create the relations that most people make. I can no longer recite timetables, carry things properly in my mind or subtract as quickly as everyone else. I can’t visualize the ones, the twos or the threes or the fours. And that’s always been where I overcompensated–why my words are my counting, why my entirety is only a literary compilation. Why I can recite the theorems, but cannot reconstruct the formulas.
I could write you about all the things I like about sex–reiterate erotica I slipped my hands under the covers with when I was twelve on thirteen; recall all the men I once had only in mind, and then the men I once had eventually inbetween sheets.
I could paint pictures of positions and types–match fabric swatches to the silk and corduroy of skin and hair; talk about how the electricity vibrates through the core of my being, paint pictures of how my emotions are magnified and my body enlightened.
I could show you how I watched my features set on fire; how my body became mine–but captivating and recited like a movie that could only be watched once, and never owned.
People tell me that fucking is vague, shallow and meaningless. People tell me that fucking is a loveless act.