Laying here, submerged in a night
the Crosley turntable starts to skip
A Fleetwood Mac record
unpopular song
hell, not even a chorus
"and you're blowing the steam train"
"and you're blowing the steam train"
"and you're blowing the steam train"

out of the monotony
He is here with me.
breath
soft ones, then the long one
the satisfaction
I want to cringe at the satisfaction exhale but
I dont
fascination, horror at my
fascination
my eyes were closed
I swear
the deliberation with which I closed them
in vain hopes of sleep.
the small of her naked, chiseled back
paled by the force of his over-sized hand
she fumbles with her arms, over-thinking
a beginner.
the taste, the irony of the carelessness
yet the instinctive over-thinking
is there sound
her parted rosy lips buried in his neck
“ and you’re blowing the steam train”