(My Balls Hurt)

I am a deranged depressed man who sought solace between the sheets underneath your skin, and on this one occasion, I begged you to let me worship your breasts which poised like a pedestal – firm and of the right size to call mine – to replenish my strife, but you ended up parting your sea like it awaited my staff to stuff you up. I remember, drinking from your naturalistic cup of coconut like it was a fruit – sweeter, softer, juiced and of lime taste – that craved my lips to suck its succulence and teeth to rock it’s fleshy edges. I miss you.

I cried in whispers, with my tears strapped on my whiskers. I called out your name in the dark, from the dark hoping the devil in you would come save me from the heat that radiated between your legs, as they wrapped their arms around my waist with pelvic interlocked in a twist. Our movements hummed to the song of the ocean waves like movable joints, and my body, a rock bound to sediment it’s detritus wasting away in the sea of your being. I casted my insecurities in your existence, and in return you eroded my sadness and left me with huge chunk of a fuck – grief – to deal with. I miss you.

The sound of your soft voice, seep through the marks you once clawed on my back, awaiting for no one else but you, but your absence is like a salt to a freshly circumcised penis. “Weep not penis” I keep telling myself to deny me the joy of pains. It’s impossible not to remember you this way, everytime I do my lips curl into a song. Thank you for making me a father it’s a beautiful gift you scarred me with. Thank you for carrying a piece of me in you, the closest I’ve come to redemption’. Thank you for scaling the creatures off my skin carrying them inside the spaces of your crevices. I have no strong words to say I can do this by myself. I miss you.

I sat alone wallowing in thoughts with a pint of whiskey and a smoke when I was caught In an unfamiliar constellation contemplating suicide and sex and murder, the ghost of you held my hands, told me that even the dark could be pleasurable. When I writhed in silence, when darkness crept upon me, in my hurt, you heard me, when you laid behind the glass that cased your face, eyes closed with breath that had become air, lips dried, and cracked skin, you were gone. I miss you.

Phill Ibsen