Tilting Windmills

There in the highways of her dress. I drove. Through the red lights. Through the construction. And dead ends. To name the streets she'd always kept anonymous. To focus on the gravel that finessed me forward. To smell the sewer at the fringes of her vagina. And become intoxicated.

The moral I found was that the moral need not be present to divine a destination from an aimless path. Sex is a fable of tremendous proportions. Ogres of skin pulling on frail scaffoldings of trust. The callous of diagrams paused to worship gods hardly enviable.

My disease could've been coaxed into remission by anyone of them. But I chose to remain faithful to unhappiness. The angles of sobriety diminishing the journey that lay under her dress.

Until I gave in to the ease of toiling open zippers. A prostitution of love unlike any drug could emulate. The power I found in manipulating their penises. Euphoria has yet to match. The satisfaction I discovered helpless resonating like foul panties I'm forced to wear. Anything to be ugly again. Anything to forget I wasn't where I am now.

I'm too man to suit another man. Too woman to love another female.

So I proceed to love myself in quixotic doses. IN careful measures of a past I cherish.