still playing lost and found
It's like you don't need the drugs to get high anymore.
You lay on the sheets of her always-unkempt bed with your fingers in her never-unkempt hair, the sticky heat of her body against yours clashing with the wind blowing through the window. Her tongue slides into your mouth, the familiar taste of alcohol and sweat and her breath taking away your own. You sigh into her mouth, and she grins, wicked. Amy, with her dark hair soft on your chest.
Her fingers trace the long line on your chest, first upwards and then downwards, downwards, downwards where it kills. Her fingers and her fingernails and the blood under them, and her tongue over the path of bruises she marks on your skin every time.
Your eyes roll back, half-closed.
You possibly take advantage of her, or she you; you're never sure anymore which is which; the fight has been too long for you to follow. Too angry, too hard, too deep – into – her – until she moans your name a countless amount of times.
When she comes, it's like the drugs and the buzz and the end and the nothing at all, and you're quick to follow, and hot, and still- shuddering in the end.
It's not like you're in a relationship, you're hardly even dating, and after you breathe in and out and in again, the smell of Amy and sex deep in your lungs, her fingers begin to trace lazy circles over your chest and you can't.
Exhale.
You wait a few moments, unbreathing, and her eyes are dark as she explores the number of ways you might be able to kill her in a second. You count fifty-two and exhale, half-expecting it to come out as smoke.
You don't tell her that she's beautiful because you never do. You don't say anything at all, so she starts talking like a couple about Tahiti and Hawaii and the places in between, and the cool air dries the sweat off your chest.
Your fingers reach to reclaim her as they always do, touching and untouching and right there where she needs them, yes, more, just like that.
And you aren't in a relationship, so you could get up and leave her right now, whenever you damn well want to. It's like the high and the power and the feel of adrenaline on your tongue, bitter and angry and buzzing all the way down as.
You swallow hard and dig deeper.
She kisses you on the lips, licking over the spot you've been biting.
You could leave her as many times as you want to, and come back for more. It's not a sudden realization, you've known this, but you suddenly feel like such an asshole.
And again.
You put your pants back on, and she watches. The material grazes your inner thigh where she did just an hour ago, her saliva still wet and sticky against your jeans. Your bruises begin to heal and she says nothing, nothing at all.