Intimacy.
The heart is deceitful above all things, and other stolen titles:
you were not so soft, you were rough, rather, and you buried your face into my neck when you pulled me tight and your exhale made me uncomfortable in a hot kind of way, but I did not push you back, nor did I pull you closer, I just laid there like I had been the past few hours, passed out in a drunken stupor-like and awoken with your arm around me in a very nice sort of way.
I stayed there, maintaining steady breaths (to let you know I was awake would have been unforgivable), and I would have thought the same of you had your hands not suggested otherwise. All the same, I willed to your sympathy, your lips to my neck and my hands in your hair: “please don’t kiss me.”
Irony is: betrayal of a body.
Thank God you are not the ironic type.
I have quick, pulsing fingers and hungry lips; I have precision movements and dancing hips. I have a body in a bed. I have emotionless sex.
What I have is a time bomb.
To get to your bed, they will play with your head and skip beats on your heart and pull tight at your fingertips and with their lips, they will drip lines and breaths and soft things like: Eros, like: agape, like: philia. They will not mean any of these things. Rare, but they will live immortally in poetry that is not rightfully meant for them.
Irony is: betrayal of a body.
God have mercy on the ironic; The heart is deceitful above all things.