Guava rots on the ground; the pigs come through in the night and devour the slop, snacking on grubs, the earth routed in their wake.

My nightmare wakes me; I was holding her body in my arms, a more fragile version of reality, a kiss blown from the aether to startle my lungs.

Do you dream about me?

He starts low, kissing the top of my foot; his lips press his latent intentions into my skin, and I curl my toes, watch him crawl.

He licks my thighs, first; the sweat from the day, from the mundane, from the soft line of continuity, day blurring into day liming my pussy--I didn't wear panties, because

He moves in further; I slide forward on the couch. I want to be fucked--I want to be filled and devoured, the rows of destruction gutting my yard a model

For my will--but he starts slow, he starts like this: first the foot, then the ankle, then the backs of the knees. Thighs. The cream is on top.

He makes me wait, makes me dwell in my dark dreams until

He is ready

and I, I can forgive him for this, as long as he never, ever stops.