What comes next? July 22, 2015

 I hold it in my hands at night, not quite aware of what I should do with it, to expose it to the night air or not, to rub it until it become erect, desperately needing you to inspire it, someone on the receiving end to acknowledge what I do, and my reason for doing it.

In the absence I linger, fingers clutching something I ought to stroke, still needing you to help me, to make the whole thing worthwhile, to consume it when I do, to accept this as an offering I hold up in the dark, to inspire, conspire, to make it all become real as I hold it, yet now, all this time later, I am inspired by memory of what once inspired me as real, and so I cling to it, as yet not aware of what comes next

 

 

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