For him, beach house by 30
I used to love the idea of loving him, so dearly to the core of my organs. Beating like a heart, natural and simple, like breathing. I used to admire the idea of him, of us: two people that have not seen each other in a very long time but thought of each other in between the time difference and geographical sequence. The way words were flown easy in safe distant conversations, hopes and dreams of having a beach house by the time he turns thirty, shaping an almost perfect prose for a poetry. A story of him and me: all the way from the swings when we barely be, small hands and lousy hair cuts to adulthood - coffee shops and cinema seats. I used to love how pretty the idea of him, like a daydream, 'til his mouth flutters the dirtiest words that even brush unable to clean, because there is no dust, only lust. Now everything is like the wind that sends shiver between my thighs. Drop of water on a golden-coated pipe, wet, inches away from corrosion. I now no longer sure to love the idea of him, as the innocence of make-believe upon the gentleness of his great self melted along with his sweat, my sweat, and panting breath. All the child-like smile has rested in peace as the ravens claim all there is, is just fuck to give.
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