Walt Whitman's Cells

Walt Whitman's cells are joining with all of it.  Mechanical, electrical, digital, spiritual:  those are portions of us, pieces, their missions--the sheer promiscuity of their willingness to merge--demonstrate something akin to love if not love itself.  We are one, of many we are two;  lying naked on the top of the sheets, our skin embroidered with goosebumps, the three of us, chilled by the open window, anxious, anticipating touch.  I am wanting Walt.  He wants both of us, he says.  Walt Whitman wants the world.  Every atom, every cell, every word that we have spoken…   

And I think that this is like that.  My skin wants to be inside of you.  When you were awake, I flattered you with questions, my fascination as obvious as the erection in my jeans.  I listened.  The rare alchemy of my desire invented you, a hero, out of your modest honesty.  My curiosity sat on the dinner table, fat and wide-eyed.  Still hungry.  

When you were awake, I irritated you with questions.  Exhausted by my words, you accelerated the dance.  By not answering, you seduced me.  You pulled my t-shirt over my head.  You unbuttoned my jeans.  In your silence, I could read anything.  The erotic.  The poetic.  The romantic.  The lie.  After we both cum, something changes.  The dumb urgency pronounced by fervor, the frantic grappling subsides.  For a while, a glowing fever will retain.  I see flashes in the dim light that I suspect emanate from your eyes.  

You sink quickly into the waves of linen.  Your tense silence gives way to sonorous breathing.  You utter more under the breath of your snoring than you gave me all evening.  Without my questions, could you have managed a word to me.  In lieu of conversations, I imbue the gurgle and whistle from the back of your throat with tender sentiments.  I have even forgotten your name.

When you are sleeping, I hold parts of you in my greedy fingers.  Your hand is cool.  Your ear a broken shell.  Your cock rests in my palm like a chubby naked doll.  Even in sleep, your personality--more imagined than real, even snoring, you find ways to evade me.  Your fingers fall open.  You scratch your ear.  You tumble away from me, stealing your dick, rolling over on it like a football player recovering a fumble, like a drunken truck burying the camp fire before roaring into the night.  

There are sounds outside, voices and engines.  I imagine the girl, the driver, the truck, but I do not abandon the vigil.  I continue watching you sleep. The sun is impatient, clamorous, the torch will ignite everything; but when your eyes open they are aching.  They look past me.  The window, the light, reminds you of a day of obligations.  You are already showered.  You are dressed.  I am still a little melancholy, the room invaded by this vague confusion and solar flares. 

, he saysAnd my octogenarian mother will tell you of my penchant for wandering, she will compare me to Billy in Family Circus, a comic strip that you have never heard of.