ACT I

Whispers and feathery touches collapse the space between. Soft giggles, fumbling through the half-light. Your anxiety gives way to anticipation as I kiss each lip, unbuttoning whatever I can. Restrained sensibilities weaken as carnal urges tickle my spine. Half-dressed I push you onto the bed. Hesitating as I drink you in, your eyes dancing between vulnerably demure and wanton sex kitten. Captivated by your curves divine, carnal lust bewitching, my lips tasting your heavenly form. Our eyes meet, lips lock. The kiss becomes wet and torrid, quick hands push away remaining clothing between us. Playfully nipping your lip, I feel your hands, suggestively pushing me down. I take my time. I go slow. Your breathing becomes ragged and heavy. Your legs wrap around my body. Your hands pull and tousle my hair as I grab your hips and pull in closer. I hear you speak but cannot hear you. My hands slide up your sides to your heaving chest. I feel your hands rake my spine. Your voice is shaky, mumbling incoherrently.

ACT II

I'm overwhelmed with desire, drunk from your savory aroma. I'm no longer in control. All thats left is primordial, unadulterated emotion. I need you. Absorbing one another, I bury my face into your hair. Heaven, rapture. Our shadows play against the wall, lecherous impulses blossom. Groping, biting, time slipping in irrelevance. We discovered a rythmn, a binaural tempo transcending passion to a frenzied ecstasy. Pulling at each other, the cadence swells to a pulsing crescendo we cannot escape. We are only aware of the moment. Our throes of intimacy meld violently into awakening pangs of apogee. A sobering realization these moments are finite, fleeting.

ACT III

We collapse in a hot, sweaty mess. Tangled, entangled, entranced, in a trance. We dare not move, our breathing begins to shallow. Our faces pull together for a weak, yet enpassioned kiss, it lingers. I feel the sweat on your quivering lips. I feel you smile. In the afterglow, I feel your body mold into mine as the sheets get pulled over our bare skin. I hear your breathing fade to a soft purr. I pull you close, kiss your neck, falling asleep. The tranquil warmth that is 'us' in this moment. And that it is ours.

Social media vampires, er..., influencers, aren't concerned with articulation. Appropriate grammar or etiquette on their platforms would be considered a faux pas. Misspellings and disorganized sentence structures are merely seen as creatively structured riffs that hypnotize the crowd they seek to surround themselves with. And while it may be subconsciousness, their primal lizard brain knows their fame dies like a burning match.

But if you're trying to contend for these types of readers, writing, and this audience, isn't for you.

Is the stereo still on? I hear it playing back in the bedroom. Sounds far away. But only because it's fighting the sitcom playing on TV. I try to tune out the show to hear what song is playing but I'm too far into the stupor to guess. Not that it matters. Trebek isn't eyeballing me for the "who is yada yada yada." I really want to turn that damn stereo off. I want it off because it feels like a waste. Like a band playing in a packed bar, but no one cares, no one pays attention, and no one notices. But the house feels quiet already. Too quiet. Sitting in silence makes me shudder and sends goosebumps running up my arms and down my back. I wonder if I play NPR or some talk show, it'll fill the void that dampens the air I breathe. I sit forward and pour another slosh of Johnny Red. Two fingers should do it. I'd been capping my pours to that volume all night. One more finger. It'll save me a trip of sitting forward. Yeah... that makes sense. I suddenly realize that I'm the adult version of Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone. Except I don't have a family of 30 over for the holidays. Nor is Joe Pesci and Daniel Stern out lurking anywhere trying to steal my shit. But they may want Johnny. I should probably grab him and hold him closer in case someone tries to break in. I grab the bottle by the neck and jam it between me and the side of the couch. I feel good about this... the bottle is safe, and I'm too numb if someone attacks me. I should get a snack. How long has it been since I've eaten? I refill my glass, now that the bottle and I have become intimate... I dispense with the trivialities of etiquette. I turn the volume up on the TV a tad. I don't want to hear myself think anymore. A sobering thought dribbles down my whiskey glass as I realize I'm tired of this routine. I'm tired. I'm tired of being tired and it all comes from being alone. How am I still alone? Why am I alone? What kind of person have I become? Or worse... have I always been a dick? Why don't I have any answers to these questions?!? I shouldn't be drinking this much. I don't need to be drinking this much. I walk into the kitchen to find something to snack on. I swallow whats left in the glass, set it next to a bottle of whiskey on the counter that I forgot was already open. I rummage through the pantry, cupboards, and refrigerator seeking culinary inspiration. I settle on a mozzarella cheese stick. I know that I need to change. I need to make changes. But first, I'm going to pour a liberal amount of whiskey from this bottle for a tasters choice. We'll even drop a couple of ice cubes in it to ensure I'm staying hydrated.

If Batman were to kill his nemesis, its possible he'd suffer from an identity crisis. Batman was spawned from the man to become the Clown Prince of Gotham. Before I delve any further, I'm not claiming to be an expert nor criminal psychoanalyst. Just another humble opinion, a fan I am. For a playful parallel, think of the antics between the Looney Tune characters Ralph Wolf and Sam Sheepdog. Both are merciless in their duty to accomplish their goals. And in the same breath, merciless against each other. But in the beginning and in the end of the cartoon, it shows them both punching in and out of the timeclock as if it were to be done. They both exist for their purpose. And without the other, their purpose would less satisfying. Less meaningful. On a subconcious level, I think Batman needs Joker in his universe to keep his edge; he's the carrot that keeps him chasing.

Alternatively, maybe its not up to Batman. Joker always seems to end up in Arkham, where some lawyer or pyschiatrist wanted to spare him. Personally, I think it illustrates the institutional failure of Gotham politics to think caging the animal, even with an insanity plea, is better than putting the wild dog down. But this isn't what I concur with. Biggest part of my love for this criminal bromance is that it does remind me of the Looney Tune duels of old. And everytime I see a new Batman comic, game, movie being announced, I can always count on Mr. J to come popping from the shadows to flaunt his chaotic grin through the streets of Gotham.

For someone, who isn’t mine,

on pages, unscripted and honest,

regards a love unfit, in definition, and rhyme.

At dark, long before light,

I sense your hunger, give wolfish chase,

in hopes to dream, to abscond.

Your warming touch, tickling my spine,

your gaze enrapt, demurely entranced.

Do you see me... Somewhere between the lines?

My life, my love, yours, always and forever,

with memories, giggles of mischievous trysts,

unfurling passions, arcane, and intoxicating.

Your gentle caress enchants, paramour,

a sultry scent, and unspoken song,

seduces the pulse from the signature prose.

Cradle these delicate words, my love,

to be in your arms again,

Find me there, somewhere between the lines.

I agree with you. I don't know why 18 either. You're not being weird either. Hopefully, if you're a student of life, you'll question things until the day you die. Don't lose the curiosity. It keeps you young and forever growing.

Next, I applaud you for your self-awareness. I don't think I was cognizant of such things until my mid-twenties. With that segue in place, be organic with your age and growth. Don't feel like you need to morph into a 'someone' that you aren't even sure you'll like being. You are correct to actively treat your age as a benchmark. Because in ten your current self will be a derelict memory.

Despite the state of affairs in our world today, make the next 10 years whatever your dreams ask for. Don't hold back. And DO NOT ask for permission. Do it. Jump off the cliff. Take whatever metaphor or analogy you like and make your own choices. And you'll either love the decision or learn something from it. Either way, it'll tell a story to share and experience to build on.

Happy belated birthday. And good luck.

Oh! and have some fun too.

From the dancing lights,

to sunny square walks.

No shadow so sexy,

that I desire to chalk.

Like Peter Pan, I hasten the chase,

with your shadow soft as satin lace.

Oh, what would your shadow say?

It's a fantasy, I know.

But its the best I can do.

Because I'm too timid to approach you, Boo.

So with face disguised, and social distance,

I'll remain unseen for this instance.

So until lives change for sunnier days,

I'll be in love with your shadowy sways.

To be honest, I hope that we are not entertaining yet another evolution in the realm of relationships. Most people (myself included), have enough difficulty navigating this foggy mess, without the powers that be, moving the goal posts on a whim.

What is a relationship if we aren’t passionately in love? Does it matter whether the relationship began fifty years ago or five minutes ago? Whatever the circumstances or causality or companionship desired… it is what it is. Yes… dear reader… “it is what it is…,” a terrible trope and commonly referred as glib. But maybe in this particular case, you can overlook it and allow it as evidence.

Because as cliché as it is, everything evolves. Everything changes. And so does the desires and needs of each unique relationship, as well as each individual within the relationship. Who am I to decide or say what YOUR relationship requires or negates? Who the hell am I? It is an unfortunate part of life, but truthful, especially when the powers that be, move the goal posts on a whim… expecting us to have some effervescent understanding of love simply because. It’s an emotionally messy game. And please don’t keep score. For the sake of all that you love… do not keep score. Its beautiful, its brutal… for the selfish and the caring. Find the balance. Balance the compromise.

It shouldn’t be complicated. However, being human is complicated. Living this waking life is treacherous enough, but what a damned beautiful mess it is.