Monday, September 9

Quattro Stagioni

I AM A COMMA that keeps two parts of a sentence from fighting each other. I am a comma that keeps a dog locked in the kitchen. I am a comma that is currently separating summer from autumn. The breeze isn’t as kind as it used to be; certain scents introduce themselves back into the air, changing its flavour. As a youth I would notice the blackberries—like nature’s disco-balls—puff their million little mirrors out on the brambly limbs of angry plants.
The rain now is the younger brother of the rain we had two weeks ago; it cries more for attention and cares less for the flowers that tremble and buckle underneath it.
If evolution is to be believed then surely now is the time for me to unzip my fly. Nine months, crept hostile through winter, would lead me to … let’s not discuss children but the act of fucking (though if we were, what better time to cut a cord than in June, when everything is ready and waiting for you and the summer life is newborn, colourful, a cymbal ringing out brilliant?).
In summer one is tempted because to sweat even more all over your lover is an honour. The open window with its thick air coming through does you no favours. What drips off you drips on to her. In the midst of summer, at night when all was still and quiet and the sound of perpetual traffic was allowed to enter, I got between her legs; the molasses of her sweat and her piss were as sweet as the clear dribbling from her sex. When she took me in her mouth I was certain that she was tasting the perspiration from my midday walk, before I came and her blinks echoed every ejaculation rising out of me like a congregation leaving through church doors.
Now in winter one fucks to keep warm and to be warmed. The emergence of any organ from between two sheets is enough for it to be pulled back inside. Until, at one’s warmest, you put the entire length into the fires of her sex and she smothers you, clenching.
That will be winter; months ending with the suffix –er.
But that is to come.
For now I pull the blinds down on darkness, when before they were bright then later cracking into solid shades of blue pink orange red. Changes are afoot. This isn’t summer love because I am a comma and autumn is when we should be removing each other’s clothing.

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