marrissajean

You smell like half-hearted sex, she said, recalling the afternoon’s events. I was tired. It wasn’t working. Our bodies- bent on the same end- could not agree on a beginning.          On top of my bedspread        we repositioned limbs and you removed               my heavy sweatshirt. I was hot. It wasn’t working. Left in a black tee-shirt, I wore a white flag and      no underwear. You covered yourself as you quickly dressed- while I, in fashion, lay motionless and mourned for the stillborn thing. Later, we bought a jar of ink and a journal bound like a book. I don’t wear perfume, and      this