the breeze doesn't always feel good.

It’s hard to not have

an anchor

To a person, place, or thing

It feels a bit

like how a man once

described to me

What a woman

described to him

Sitting on a face feels like.

Swaying in the breeze

disconnected and all alone

up there

Even though

reality couldn’t be further

Babe, you’re literally

connected at the root

Even though the roots aren’t planted

They’re exposed

The sexy illusion

of playing puppeteer

All limbs

choreographed

Climax on cue

Is gone.

My tits

are too cold

from the air

All I want

to do is collapse

Actually sit

I can’t even reach mirage.

It just feels

like it’s

going to take

an inconvenient

amount of time

To cum.

In life.

Or something.

​

(even though that's not the point. duh.)