It always comes back to Sundays.
He worries that he keeps returning, as though stuck in a scratch on a vinyl album, acquired through the accident of frottage. He imagines much-loved albums offering to share their scratches with more pristine members, the stickiness of love. Is this what it means to be passionate about music? To play into the scratch?
He has vowed to tell the truth on Sundays, to adopt a confessional, if bashful, I. Irony has been banished, as has wit. He assumes a painful sincerity will bring love, or legibility.
Today, I want to fall in love.
Once tried, the pose is quickly abandoned, as he wonders why legibility needs emotional banality. He seeks other coordinates.
Today, I want to fuck a dirty ass.
Yet, the shift into the crudely performative feels just as banal—kink lost its edge somewhere around page 45. Only the familiarity of the text and the drive to complete it remains. And so he reads of a syphilitic woman gifting herself to kink-seeking men and stifles a yawn. Reaches for a prune and muses at its texture: sticky fruit.
I have become serrated, adept at pineapple interactions.
He has been eating semi-ripe fruit, convinced that nostalgia is an aid to digestion. Indigestion is also a memory, though even nagging pain feels constantly new, as though nerve-endings lack memory, and each stab produces new bodily contours, body images etched in ache. Perhaps the bodily ego is one massive bruise.
I want to eat you.
There is something inconsistent in the shifts, as though honesty cannot bear its reflection. Joints fracture at acute angles, creating splinter arpeggios. He finds it difficult to yield to someone else’s beat. Desire will not let him bend. Waves crash into barriers. Yet, it is easy to fold into a stranger’s rimming, to give what is so easily taken. Could this be the distance between lust and lust?
I am always never coming.
Standing in the shadow of the avocado tree, he stumbles through the steps of another’s dance, slips, blushes, returns off-beat, stops, as though to recover, discovers the refuge of stillness.
Now, surprisingly, I trust the ecstasies of my younger self.
A story: he used to spend hours on his knees in prayer, seeking to grasp death from its inevitability, rehearsal, he learned, for the taste of bitter cum, akin to bitter herbs, and the failures of Passovers that took old men. Speaking in tongues taught him to lick fleshy coronas.
It is never returning.