his name was "yes".
Unlike Modo the dwarf, Sergeant Colon did know the meaning of the word 'irony'. He thought it meant "sort of like iron".
Lust evades me.
He's a dauntingly salacious roll of a blonde-haired, blue-iris-raped beauty with a love of endless hours of teasing on those particularly lonesome evenings where neither one of us requires a last name. I met him in a rage of trust and desire months ago when we both lit ourselves into a frenzy over the look of the other.
He later confessed, beneath the tyranny of my sober honesty, he wanted and waited and ruminated and thought and thought and thought and thought...
I blow into his ears. He fishes through my pockets. I kiss the length of his jugular. He pushes the steering forward on his motorcycle. I just wanted and waited and thought...and thought...oh, how I thought.
Wrists. A blank wall where he cradles the styrofoam glory of his late-night coffee and I tell him in another life that perhaps we could make this work somewhere else, sometime other than this, pushing, pushing, pulling into each other, and then it breaks. We split. We return to separate beds.
And I wanted.
This hasn't even begun.
time & machine