A Few Nights Back [Explicit]

[koolguy1029]

(I'm have the feeling that a good deal of this poem is a little unnecessary/redundant, so any tips on how to trim it(if you feel that it needs to be) are appreciated)

This pillow

is not a body.

Something I

realize in

analphabet ramblings.

I should have been

asleep an hour ago.

.

I’m fighting a bout

of self-indulgence,

of mindless, of

specious whines

as if I’d want

someone to listen.

.

I’ve been trying

not to eat my

liver, I’ve been

thinking about

what you taste

like.

.
I’ve been thinking

of putting my tongue

on your body. I

always pretend like I

I do it to make my

way to a destination,

as if teasing a cunt.

.

But I want to put

this fallacy on you

when I occasionally

put reason to rest.

Each hair I’m reminded

that I can’t breathe

freely, because I can

see each follicle.

.

And with every hair

on you(and seeing

every other pretense

of pollutants), I let

myself forget about

vice, because I can

see each hair and I

let myself think that

you have none.

.

I let myself believe

this just long enough

to put my tongue on

you, or long enough

to want to. I let myself

believe this just long

enough for you to tell

me that I’m beautiful,

and I remember this

long enough to want

it.

.

I diverge my position,

I can’t sleep like this.

I accompany uncomfortable

desires with sharing my

realizings with a friend.

He wishes me the

best. It’s too late in

the midweek to talk

of such things.

.

These incoherences

leave me wanting to

come, I can feel it,

but know I should be

sleeping. I think of

putting my tongue

on your cunt, and tense

harder to remind

myself that this pillow

is not a body.

.

I think back to the

first time I did, and

the music I played.

I try not to associate

music to experiences

because I’m scared

of what people can do.

.

That time I brushed it

off, because I wanted

sense deprivation, and

I wanted to hear this

and taste that. I played

the same song three

times and I can’t

remember that this

song isn’t your name.

.

After you left I let

myself worry of such

consequences, I

feared what it implied,

but brushed it off

as a helpless

possibility.

.

I still remember it

and get scared of

the clock, and of

what things will

attach itself

to each new

position of each

hand.

.

But I remember

it a lot less, less

than of others,

because I remember

that you called me

beautiful once.

.

I know you’re asleep,

an inevitable peace

to compliment hours

of frustration. I think

of you sleeping.

I relax.

.

I know I should

be sleeping too. But

this pillow is not your

body.