We kissed over a bubble-gum sundae. Her creamy tongue was a helter-skelter in my mouth, electric blue, a slide down to my stomach where it fizzed and bubbled. We kissed hungrily. Hungrily over a bubble-gum sundae, in an ice cream shop. She kissed my fabric and my fibres and then, once satiated, she dislocated her jaw, snapping teeth and bone, pulling her elastic lips wide. Wide lips, she took me in her mouth; first my face, my head, my shoulders until I was entirely inside her. Cocooned in her kiss, befriending her violent, gory, fatty, beautiful internal organs. I discussed Bukowski with her liver, debated Hobbes with her brain and smoked cigarettes with her lungs. I would writhe within, immutable euphoria; a dull, addictive ache. Time was humid, close, sticky and long and passed slowly then, but all too quickly now.
For her tongue, once tired of kissing, came to know me as a liar. I spoke of Bukowski and Hobbes but knew nothing of poetry nor ethics. And I hated the taste of cigarettes. A kind landlady, my eviction was served with notice and nuance. No more cigarettes, just the turning of her back and hurried sleep. And eventually, like a sleeping bag, she unzipped, unpeeled me from within, and set me free. Home is where the heart is, where my heart was, where her heart stays. And every day I get over her a little more.