she throws her head back and contemplates every inch, her body an electric curve: the aerodynamics of lust.
it’s always like this.
after, we exist for a few moments in a tangle of heightened nerves and slick limbs upon the bed sheets. i frequently imagine that the breeze from the ceiling fan gets caught in our sweaty skin like some delicate animal that followed the pulse of the world and ended up in lonely death.
there’s a cresting sorrow in the rhythm of our love now; the unexpurgated truth of it, the too-much aching and the sudden tremble. her face has become a remote twist of innumerable emotions that have drifted away from me on an air of familiar contempt, of ennui, of indifference, into the interstitial void to which her heart and mine so desperately clung. we started off as individuals, but in our quest for originality, we ended up the same and somehow, strangely, loathed each other for it.
i try reaching out to her from the chasm of my own withdrawal, in the darkness of our extinguished expectations, but my hands return empty and ache all the more for the effort.
so here we lie beneath the fan. here we lie beneath the assumption of love — in silence, in pain — waiting for an appropriate time, cupping the velvet distress of our bodies.
Nicolas Gonzales 