Three stories. Disconnected.

Thin strands of hair congregated like rope splinters to hang down in front of his eyes, hanging in the soft summer gravity, making me furious, twitching my hand with primal anxiety.

I awaited the perfect moment to strike and it came so I struck.

Reaching out to swipe the playful strands of hair from his eyes and saying to him, "Life is like the opposite of gymnastics in that the only scores that count are your highest and lowest."

He processed what I said, refined it and refined it like sugar or meat. He turned back to me and said, "Well, I suppose I'm ready for either of the two tonight."

And with that we retired and made love that was altogether somewhere in the middle.

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During the next few days I would be overcome by frequent bouts of severe stomach pain.
Driving me to the ground as if, for once, humbled.
My landlord took notice and drove me to the hospital.
Where doctors performed a stomach pump.
And extracted three crystallized butterflies.
Like dinosaurs in tar.
And sent me home.

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She crossed her heart and hoped to die and did.
The doctors stating cause of death as a block of blood flow to the aorta.
Cross a heart too many times and it tears like folded paper.
Promises are whores but he was just a man passed off as a boy,
Trying to cut back.

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~RS
February, 2006
Used With Permission