the creative process

there was the way you’d tap your fingers
along my thigh while you drove,
strumming a bassline over my knee.
you’d drum on the steering wheel,
sing or scream every lyric,
grin at me to join in.

I’d look at you in a crowded room
and you’d lick the air with that tongue,
suggestive no matter who was around.

there was that one night
with a bottle of rum and all our friends
half-dressed, dancing in the living room
your lips against my shoulder.
you carried me off to bed,
and to hell with everyone else —
we had better things to do.

there was the night you tried to tie me up
and it turned into a game
because I could always escape
and we laughed ourselves silly
for trying to be sexy.

there were all the times you challenged me not to scream
with my head out the window of the third floor
and you behind me with your bassist’s fingers
to see if people on the street would know.

there was the time you had ice in your mouth
or the times you tried the alphabet with your tongue,
just to see how many letters it would take
for me to let go. (L-M-N-O, mmm)

you used to tell me that I was wearing you out.
I wanted too much, too often, too fast, too hard.
I didn’t listen. I want what I want.

and when I left and you slept with someone else
all I could think was that
you must be so happy to have found someone
who didn’t like to fuck as often as I did.

what kind of man are you?

I’m not cut out for the same old thing
and I’d like to think I forced you to be
a little more creative.
so I hope that
is just as boring
as you always wished I’d be.


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