Kisses in the middle of the night as outside the window, heaven falls and darkness rumbles. Maybe it’s thunder. Or some dickheads in their cars listening to music as shit and as pointless as a turd boiling on the sidewalk on some British summers day that lasts as long as a fart. These kisses though, they come slow and quick and then when I slide my fingers in, the world disappears and we’re the last two left. When you raise your right leg and I thumb your bean, there’s only us and dust. I stink of sweat. My armpits reek of it, but it doesn’t bother you. You can be just as bad, especially when you refuse to wash because there’s a spider in the bath and I won’t get rid of it. Can’t get rid of it. It’s irrational, I know, but these fears just won’t shift. So we don’t wash and smell bad, but we enjoy our dirtiness and the words come thick and fast from my mouth to yours and then back again until we both choke. I degrade you the best I can. I make you mine in so many ways, and then when it excites you enough, you take control and put me in my place like the naughty kid I am. Gripped wrists and spit. Blood and the Bible and tongues and lips that lick and suck without shame and the strange monsters from my childhood that come out from under the bed and watch as you scratch your initials into the space between my shoulder blades. Space. The big empty. It stretches forever and yet it’s small enough to fit into our beating chests. When I go down and sniff you out, I can smell the birth of new galaxies and the death of old ones. Those first ones that appear only as mere faint red dots, they’ve been gone for so long now, and yet still they exist in the muck between our toes and the seed that collects in your bellybutton as I shoot what I’ve got while clenching my teeth and howling at the ceiling. In that bellybutton now, there’s an ocean of everything, and when you dip your finger in and bring it to your lips as I reach for a smoke, the circle of life and madness continues.