Sometimes the bones involved aren’t only boners. Sex, it seeps into your bones. And that long term sex, that devastating sex with someone you know, you know intimately, well, that’s like a rapid osteoporosis. It, by every caress, each suck down the neck by pursed, kissing lips, that tittilating thigh entwinement, leeches the life from your bones. It keeps me from running. If I sprint, those fragile sticks will break from the speed, the way they so strike against each other on the fall, surely to cause a spark and a combustion. And I’ll be left dragging myself away, a heart on fire, a body engulfed in the woe of it all.
I suppose that’s what people call love. Letting go, giving in, or some such shit. But love, as, say, enticingly as this Nick Monaco retouch sensually touches your heart in the right places, is still a damn dangerous game. Love is, as Rhye put it, terminal. First, it’s just that you can’t run; but then you’re self-survival is shot. Fight or flight, one half gone. So, you fight, and you fight, and you fight in all the wrong ways and you’re just never the same again once its all over. That splayed man, smelling bedsheets for their scent.
Perhaps it’s just my nature and my nature, will ‘ruin love’. But passion is passionate, and passion isn’t toxic. Passion isn’t some disease. And passion can come in the form of a three day whirlwind, a powerfully sexy declaration to make love in a hotel. But watch for those moments when you fall in love, those moments when you fall apart and the sheets turn bloody.
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