She likes to play a game where we map out each others thoughts and cry each others stories. We burn away the night like a waxing candle with frivolous touches and evasive words which wrap around us in italics and hug our bodies until we have to curve into each other or we'll fall off the edge of the world. I tell her I'm no good for her, and she presses silence to my lips and tells me that she's a junkie who hasn't had a fix in over ten years because that's the last time we played a game. I tell her I'm the last woman on earth and she's the only thing I can keep dreaming about, and that if I don't have her now I'll never know what its like to have her. She laughs and tells me I can't own her even though we both know I already do, and she touches me and makes me dance agonizing steps on my toes and she kisses with sinful words and pin-board looks. I push her away like a fan on high and make her let me own her by sticking into her like needles while I seep into her like a drip, our sounds the beeps of the monitors beside our hospital beds of eternity.
she likes to play a game where we map out each others bodies and drink in each others breath. I play along so I can pretend for the day I own her and she's no longer a figment of my imagination. I play along so I can learn the caresses of my body and the curves of her life, and feel alive.