Lovers Favorite Lover

Let That Man Sleep

Mama say let that man sleep. Don’t you wake him.

No matter what he promised. Only wake him if he axe for it. Don’t take on his responsibilities.

Ain’t none of your business. Not your job to steer him. You steer yourself.

Let that man sleep. Even if he’s gonna be late. It’s not your job, not your appointment. It’s not your business when and where he been or gone or goes or is when he isn’t with you.

You aren’t responsible for this one. That’s what you want, that’s what you asked for. Take it. 

Let That Man Sleep
Let That Man Sleep

Please sir, though when you up. Just say you want me because that pussy good.

Don’t say you want me for my mind. I don’t give a fuck. You think I don’t know my own mind? The curse of brilliance?

We know.

Just say that pussy go0od. You know it is true. Trust it. Fuck it.

But now, now I let him sleep.

I like men that build their lives in spite of. Dealt astonishing blows of fate that remove the Middle Way, they flourish in the margins creating even more space around the dominant narrative than is within it. Men that survive. 

Men that have their lives handed to them on a platter bore the fuck out of me because they do not bore. No tunnels, no dark, beautiful circumvents. They simply make their grand entrance into a pleasant ballroom. 

Not my type. Mine who flounder in the dark until they learn to make their own light. Each so fractal in the repetition of them as G-d-made, self-made and re-made beings. Unique and mold-breaking men. Perhaps some shared scars of overlapped operations but each with their own fingerprint of crosshatched growth over wounds long healed.

Save those open. 

That’s the downside to loving men with wounds. Inevitably some of them fester.

But oh I do. I love the wounded men who create around what they cannot. Men who can’t be what they’re told they should and so evolve at lightning speed into that next generation of man. Injured, beautiful fathers always doubting their impact.

You, dear Favorite

Why do you eclipse everything and everyone? Some part of me knows I have control over it. That if I wanted you to not have this power over me, I could flip it like a switch. I ponder it. 

I think about losing interest in you. How randomly we came, how suddenly we could go. The time we are in, the era, the epoch. Why now, why ever?

I love you.

Waiting on him. How many nights I sit waiting. Listening for the telltale sounds. The slamming of doors. The whirr of elevator engines. The serrate of a key sliding into a lock. 

My heart pounding, breath catching, only for a neighbor to arrive home. Their movements sound so sloppy when expecting his. His grace, his poise, his dance

He is not here.

I try not to think about what keeps him. Sometimes I can’t help it. Sometimes he arrives with fresh harm. The smell of poison on his breath. Bite marks large and small.

But now he is not here. Will this be a night I give up on him, only to have him arrive and wake me? Or will I sleep the night away without him?

Spiraling endlessly.

And when he does show up finally I am already in bed. He walks in and doesn’t immediately see me.

“Hello are you here?” he says, hopefully.  “You’re not here.” I hear pain in the last sentence. The shift to crestfallen. This is the first time I hear what it is like for him when he shows up and I am not here. My stories around it evaporate.

“I’m here.” I say, getting up to greet him.

“Oh thank God” he sobs, throwing his arms around me. Desperate for me.

Hold. Sway. Rock

Kiss. Cry. Fuck.

You say we are such different people and I wonder what you mean by that. I am called to deny whatever it is you are trying to express. It feels like another example of you pushing me away. 

I feel you pushing me away. 

It hurts.

One time, while you slept, I came into the room to lie next to you. You didn’t wake. You called me your wife’s name. I left.

We wore matching pants. You let it happen. I sugarmomma’d you up like I said I would once so long ago, like I imagined you’d never let me. But you did and here we are, two countercultural weirdos that love drugs and fucking – perusing the racks at H+M and seeing what would look cute on you. 

The pants do look cuter on me, though.

I weep for the care you need. How you attract hardness, violence, and trauma. You are isolated, abandoned, abused, and existence puts deep sea pressure on you. There is a desperate boy in you that no one has ever loved. I see him every time you wake up. 

Why are you with me? I don’t fit the pattern.

I won’t hurt you.

Pulled into analysis. Into spinning new boundaries and reinforcing old walls to keep you out. Finding deeper criticism to make sure I’m safe. Feeling and expressing too much joy equals shame. My family yoke. I see it, feel it chafe at my neck. 

Daddy say leave that man alone. He no good. He’s a drunk and he’s cheating and he’s never been anything but a low-down dirty addict.

Daddy say leave that man alone. He’s bleeding money out of you. Can’t make nothing of his own, too crazy. Diagnosis as identity. Too broken to participate. 

Daddy say you really wanna be with that? Can’t even plan. No times, no dates. 

No passport, rotten teeth, and blind in one eye.

Can’t even sleep next to him cuz he thrash, sweat and snore. Daddy say leave that man alone. How you ever gonna live with that?

Daddy say leave that man alone. He’s taken. Look at the baggage he comes with. You really want her in your life?

No siree.

We reflect each other’s joy. Spiraling endlessly.

We walked the Labyrinth. I guided us in and you guided us out. You brought and lit a candle for my father. It was his birthday. The first one I’ve lived since he died.

We went on the Ferris Wheel. You told me the whole history of the Ferris Wheel while we stood in line. Pointed out La Sagrada Familia from the sky. Barcelona looks so small from above.

We’re either still in the labyrinth or still on the Ferris Wheel. 

Spiraling endlessly. 

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