It was good enough to die for (or more accurately, she could
die right now after having gotten it), having reach Nirvana, and I’m still jealous
– of a ghost, cuckhold in my mind as I envision his hands on her, moving over
her, some new pirate with no eye patch, finding the treasure in her I never could,
or which I briefly glimpsed, his performance like a professional, his touch
lingering on all the right places for the appropriate amount of time, plunging
in, making her scream, which I hear in my dreams, only in my dreams with me on
top, not him.
Good enough she could cease to exist, having reached the
pinnacle she might never reach again, against whom she will forever compare those
in the future and the past, all of whom clearly did not and will not measure
up.
What can you compare it to when you have already reached the
top, and I sonder, how many others of us have tried mounting her as if Everest,
unable to resist the challenge, knowing down deep we are not worthy, yet all of
it spilling out of us nonetheless in the dark of light, fingers clutching are
climbing stick, desperate to hold on.
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