from a journal of eroticism and misadventures

The waitress slid her gaze down my arm, following the long purple scar that rests along my bicep. This scar, earned in a most unheroic and mundane way is my way in with girls like her. She is long black hair, wide eyes and soft eyelashes. She is thin and unassuming. I shift my weight and she looks up for a moment - but I can't tell if it's embarrassment or interest she wears on her features. So I smile. A gaptoothed wide grin with too much gums. But genuine. She smiles back, shy and gives a little trained bow, shuffling off towards the back.

I am not a beautiful girl. I'm not even pretty, although my father's relatives would tell me other wise because that's the kind of things you tell people during small talk at funerals. I am however charming. Charming & immodest with a memory like a bear trap. I use these like weapons. Defense and attack. Rarely do they let me down. I do not see myself as a predator.

Summer drew it's last heavy fevered breaths and humidity, sliding on top of my body, was a welcome bedmate. I lie in bed too often crowded. I lie too often in bed without sleeping. Autumn will be dark - skin and eyes and demeanor's. After a summer, all sunkissed blondes, all milk and honey and heartbreak, I will turn my attention to falling leaves and chilly fingers that twist around my own and the very best ways to keep warm. I have had such dreams in your autumn bed, and all these places I store memory slip out from under the sheets to rest upon our skin like dew. In the early morning I run my hands across your face to try and collect them, your features new but familiar with the dust of sleepy lovers past.

I watch the shadows my hands make on the wall. I find your mouth with mine. You taste cold and sharp like the edge of a knife, like the air as seasons shift.