The stink of inactivity turns me on like you wouldn’t believe. My own. Yours. Both at the same time. Everything ignites. Everything trembles. The thought of us spending days on end in bed together like the old people in Willy Wonka– it does more to me than all the porn in the world. Our filthy bodies. Our sweat. The grease of your hair in my eyes and the spit from my mouth covering you like a second skin. The bedsheets, they stick to us. They’re damp and smell of boredom and sex and more boredom and violence. You make me hurt you, and hurt you I do, and then comes hours of holding you. Just holding you. Nothing else. My seed in you. On the sheets. On my fingers. On your tongue. On scrunched up tissue paper tossed all over the floor. Our love letters. Our mistakes and regrets. The rain outside, it comes down for hours on end. Sometimes we eat, and sometimes I explore you using the light of the muted TV. Your country. Your secrets. They tease me enough to take you one more time even though there’s nothing left for me to give. But I do it, and you wrap your arms around me all the same and in this bubble, in this moment only the two of us will ever know, we look into each other’s eyes, and there are no words. Maybe in years to come we won’t speak. Maybe we’ll be enemies. Maybe we’ll be as far apart as the moon is to the sun, but in this bubble, we are one. I want you. I desire you more than anything. The stained sheets know it, as do the curtains, and yet only we will ever know what we created far from the eyes of others. Little miracles. Small truths that outlive flesh and bone. The smell of the back of your neck. The feel of your belly and the way I pinch your cunt, and then the way you turn to face me laughing as I go limp just at the pivotal moment. What a beautiful mess. What a beautiful universe of wonder and junk and us.