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  • I'd blow
    gently in her ear
    and she'd become moist
    in her tight pants
    and
    everything was perfect that way
    for a very long time.
    .
    and
    I remember
    how she'd cry and speak the truth
    about how much she loved me
    like no one else on earth.
    and
    with tears of absolute joy
    she'd tell me why no one else
    could ever replace me,
    for I was her rock,
    her salvation
    through all her terrible storms,
    I was both her religion and church
    during her darkest moments
    of great uncertainties,
    I was
    the only one for her,
    she'd tell me that,
    saying it all the time.
    .
    and
    maybe I was.
    you see, I felt much the same
    about her.
    she was my soft drink machine
    plugged in and cool,
    always quenching my thirst
    in the middle of my nowhere desert,
    that awful place
    existing between hell
    and an eternity of Monday mornings.
    at work by 5am,
    tools in one hand,
    putrid coffee in the other
    while working with complete dicks
    who can't make sense
    out of two words put side by side,
    or
    can't spit straight enough
    to miss their dirty jackets,
    day
    after 15 hour day.
    .
    but
    all worth it
    because she was there.
    she was my garden in paradise,
    my prize at the end of everyday rainbows.
    she never cared about the dirt
    under my broken fingernails
    or the cheap lunchmeat
    on my breath,
    just as long as I got home
    so I could blow in her ear
    and make her wet.
    and
    I really didn't mind busting my ass
    for her beautiful self,
    me,
    sometimes coming home
    limping like a near-dead horse,
    tired and beaten
    and falling asleep in the saddle,
    but never to worry,
    because there would always be tomorrow,
    I figured,
    and with it
    all that love and understanding.
    .
    but
    it was
    just a matter of time
    when play and rest went head-to-head,
    and she'd look at me
    like I was a nasty snag or run
    in her sexy and expensive nylons,
    as if I alone was ruining
    both her image and dream.
    .
    put
    more simply,
    my needs got in the way
    of her needs...
    .
    and
    our strong love
    suddenly became too much work.
    .
    and
    maybe she was right,
    because she'd no longer trickle
    when I'd blow in her ear...
    I seemed to have lost my touch.
    and so it wasn't long
    before I was replaced by somebody else
    who somehow did it much better than me,
    or so the note said
    which she left on the kitchen counter
    that warm Thursday night
    that I'd remember
    as the last day of eternity
    .
    and
    how she summed it up,
    all those deep feelings between us
    in one short sentence
    as though our love
    had been reviewed by TV Guide.
    our authentic and enthusiastic love
    was suddenly like an old movie
    shown on cable
    at 4am.
    .
    well,
    I don't think
    of her that much any more,
    now that she's gone on with someone else
    who obviously blows far better than me,
    because
    .
    I've
    gone on as well,
    with somebody who keeps me interested
    talking about magic late into the night,
    who claims she can hear
    the music of angels
    while watching sparks fly off
    the tip of my dick,
    which just keeps glowing brighter and brighter
    in the silence of the mystical dark.
    and that's okay with me,
    even if it is a corny lie,
    in fact I couldn't care less
    .
    though
    there is one thing
    I still wonder about,
    and
    that's whether
    this one I'm currently with
    will even bother to leave a note
    .
    WHEN
    she leaves.
    .
    .
    ©2016 Miles Ciletti
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