Post Coital Melancholy

Here comes that old familiar condition
---thick throbbing fog pervasively drowning out sagacity
Bringing forth my true nature
somewhere between pain and pleasure
trapped in the midst of joy and misery
Where neither tears or mirth dwell
A comforting place (really)
Where I'm restless
Uncomfortable without respite
The place which fits me best

--zealously reminiscing the burgeoning of this here and this now…

His lips on mine
A tender kiss turned urgent
¡Ah! A small bite on my lower lip to give me a hint of what's to come
Blouse hastily discarded
bra pushed aside
nipples sucked, slapped, and pinched
Hands rough on my skin
spanking my ass
I take it "like the good bitch" that I am
to remind me that I'm alive and this pain is pleasure
and this wetness between my legs (pouring out me) is cleansing my need
and with it my wanton will
which is what I came seeking
¿tonight from this stranger?

Swollen lips wrap around his cock as he thrusts in deeply
in this dusty, grimy studio floor upon which I kneel
[as if praying to St. Nicholas while seeking a different kind of ecstasy]
And we pretend (for this short time) that we are everything we each want
--to not turn this tryst into something other than what it is:
a release, a relief, a momentary passion needing to be spent
and in a moment of abandon my cunt is pounded (like he cares that it is me he's fucking)
Shocked at how well he moves inside me
(like it matters whose belly bangs against my ass)
surprised when my cunt tightens and contracts squirting all over his lap
¿would it matter whose legs it runs down?
--or that it has never happened liked this before
feeling newborn whilst I suckle, and lick, and pump
--as if his cum going down my throat will put something special inside of me

But we go on pretending that we care
and we talk about injustice
and are outraged at how people forego their good karma over a measly Forty Dollars
¿really, Forty Dollars? (really)
and what is public and is not
¿and what does that mean?
and who has more rights
and who has less
and gentrification
and cultural clashes
and the joo joo
and I try to reassure him that I'm not "that kind of girl"
that I'm not this impulsive
or careless
or precarious
or fearless
or even brave
 (though I wish I were)
but we'll go on pretending that we care until we can't anymore
and we bid adieu
because "what is done is done and it cannot be undone"
a sweet kiss, a hug goodbye, and a "drive safe"

And I'm grateful that no post coital promises are made (truly)
even though I will wait and hope
Just so that I can go on pretending a little longer
that for a short time I mattered outside of myself to someone else
(and that I even cared or wanted to)
… let me go on pretending… just a little bit more
so that I can delay admitting the inevitable
that I must forget the brief moment
when his tortured artist's spirit caressed my melancholic poet's heart
…let me go on go on wondering if he noticed
(and hoping that he did not)
because this is my private torment

-- the place I know so well (and which fits me best).