The War We Make (Part III)


Our bodies are twisted as though wrapped into a vine stretched out like sprinting for a gold medal. Her hands release their torment from my skin while her arms reach through the sky stabbing at the air, I feel her toes curl like a pair of shoes from a movie. She screams as she pours like a faucet asking questions that only drive me deeper into her pleasure. How do you end perfection, when your engine revs in overdrive even if you’ve ruined the bed in this monsoon of wet, sticky passion? There’s no way to easily end a war of passion when explosions of rage like grenades being thrown into a dugout still shatter her insides. Ah yes, her energy lapses then as if a tidal wave it hits all at once as she grips what’s left of these torn sheets in a final attempt at something great that we’ve both planned for. Those urges pull us into a blissful ecstasy as I lay down ground fire to ensure victory.

This glorious agony finally reaches a point where we feel ourselves simultaneously falling through clouds into waters that are chest-deep almost suffocating as we fight to catch our breath in the middle of this broken bed. The last of many lives’ oozes through the cracks and crevices we’ve made and called heaven while the banging on these walls drives on. We hear footsteps at the door. Those nosey neighbors, will they ever learn that our love is expressed more like an act of war than of leisure.

Kicks at the door grow eagerly though our bodies lay here destroyed from passion, pain, and pleasure, from the war that we make. We met in this tiny room, armed for battle, and gave everything that we had. There’s nothing left as we cuddle, her leg over mine, our breath as hot as Vietnamese soup in a bed that’s been completely overwhelmed that the frame no longer attaches to the headboard nor are the legs standing. This mattress is a lopsided paradise where we met for combat. We lay here, seething with passion, tears forming, as we drink from the cup of satisfaction, and sign peace treaties that we’ll uphold until tomorrow night where we will square off despite those nosey neighbors who walk into the distance away from our door waving white flags saying, “finally, it’s over!”

BATTLE VOW:

Our passion is our peace and we will devour the earth between us as we fight on to deliver something more than the routine. If we should engage then we will clash until there’s nothing left no matter the cost. We vow to drain these cisterns as though they were never anything but dry bones. Arm yourself for battle; you will get everything that I have to give, everything that you can take!

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