I do as my baby bids me do part 2: It's Keenan's Birthday

Wait. I'm not done. And I'm still talking to you, as I was in the last post.

It's late, I'm up so late.

It's Keenan's birthday, and he's made me exceedingly sentimental tonight, and I'm leaving tomorrow and it is reminding me of our once or twice monthly tet-a-tets that we used to schedule between SF and Seattle. It's not so much the trip that is reminding me--but the solitude before; me alone in my immaculate apartment, anticipating traveling alone. It's scary how much I've missed this.

There is something else I've missed.

This is so hard. That's weird right? Coming from the person who wrote this and well, this which I actually wrote about you and your friends reading me on the sly. I'm historically not shy about this sort of thing, but I find myself wanting to click-click-click out elipses on my keyboard, and I'm finding the words stuck in my throat.

What is that saying about a band-aid?

Everything else aside, I want you in my bed. 
I'm sorry, I want this to be exceedingly clear--I need you to fuck me like a memory.
I need you to fuck me like in a fucking movie where it looks like it's somehow occurring in a room with a strobe light, like it's being carefully edited to only include all the awesome parts; I need you to fuck me like you always do when it's been a while. I need you to fuck me like a song; I need you to fuck me like it should be set to some Americana rock song with an acre long screeching guitar riff.
Fuck me like if someone were for some reason to paint a representative painting of this fucking that it would depict some broken fucking glass strewn across some barbed wire and an eagle and with a flaming fucking sword in his talons. Can you please just fucking fuck me like I'm the last person on earth, or one of many people on earth, or just like the only fucking girl you want in your bed because I know that that's probably fucking true. I need you to fuck me like we'll never see each other again. I need you to fuck me like you've fucking wanted to all this time, I need you to fuck me like I'm Cake; and now I should probably fucking stop--not because of all of this fucking fucking but rather because I know a lot of people reading this will be irritated at all the infinitives I just fucking split the fuck up.

And so you will find that I'm not all responsibilities and reservations, and I just barely remember who I am, and I remember. I remember how much I loved you.

I remember how I once surmised that I could use you lounged around my apartment in SF to swat the bees from my living room. I once contemplated the fake coupledom that we'd immediately fall into upon spanning the states between us. I was once racked with all the same indecisions that I am right now--but somehow along the way I forgot how much I just want you to fucking fuck me.

This is not one of those posts with a poignant or moralistic ending.

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