The Weight of Empty

It was a quiet rain in a loud storm. It was humble kind of sex. Like bitten nails. Half painted. Soft-spoken abortions in denim. The kiss of the zipper cold. The bite of its teeth bitter. The thrill of the hotel. The shame of it. Had I been drunk too I never would've fucked him. Wouldn't even have been there.

Most times it makes you stupid. But occasionally it turns little girls into men. Mostly it makes me wonder what I've forgotten. Am I glad I did. But every so often it turns pawns into queens.

The calm of the chessboard. In careful bites of the genius. The molten thighs of strategy. In spotted stockings. In borrowed dresses. Turning those borrowed rooms into destinations. Hard rain on soft roofs. In terminal parodies of ourselves we collect our loves in empty bottles. Each one heavier than the one before.