Summer’s heat.

I remember the summer’s heat that night. Earlier that day pointless conversations were pursued. Talks about why things just couldn’t continue. Why are things the way things were. About the fact that I am not yours. And you would never be mine. An uneven exchange of dialogue between lovers is always a complete waste of time. Walking the endless spectrum of beige colored halls of a newly renovated hospital, I sat on the phone and engaged in these mental exercises we created when in reality, this was the beginning a formulation meeting. I was working that day and was behind because there was confusion as to why there was a lack of comprehension, on your part. How many years must the charade go on? How many more years, darling? To the mind of a man, there’s no difference in situations unless there are consequences to actions. Even then, that’s still a fine line to decipher. The back and forth bickering, when we began we agreed to no words only movements. Only movements and appreciation for the nightly escapes from the mundane routine of relationships. That’s it. Why are we arguing? You’ve been making love to body for years, I’m beginning to believe… maybe it’s more? Or maybe I’m just residing between my own thighs and my desires are blurring my vision. I’m sure you’ve forgotten nights with me, hell I wish I could forget too. I remember that summer’s heat that night, though. Open windows with the scents of lavender and vanilla, warm breeze. Lying there in wait, hearing your footsteps being carried with an echo. Door was always unlocked, smiles always inviting. Beneath hands and lips, the submission was immediate. There was always a sense of urgency when our bodies met. A sense of dependency that if tonight never ends, the passion lives on between us. I always hated arguing with you but to end up like this, I guess I’ll play again.

Artwork: Walter Baraldi, from JCA Annual 5 (1984)