The Last Three

Low light,
pitch black,
blindfold,
Two new and an old,
My place,
hers,
and a circuit closed,
Each of them I proposed.

Blurring between them,
These neurons firing out of order,
Remembrance revising events,
Unverifiable,
Shoddy organics, confusable,
Their sweet releases clenching on my cock,
Immeasurable in their number:

She doesn’t count them,
She doesn’t realize the lauding escaping lips,
She hasn’t had anyone else take her on this island.

It might be the thing I’m most talented at,
Deprived for so long,
Yearning, aching, learning, listening,
I feel each quiver quickening,
Take each wet caress as a guidepost,
Breadcrumbs,
Yarn through the labyrinth,
But here the skill rots,
Useless,
Encumbered by this apathy,
Anonymity,
Eunuch with ennui,
Dreaming of being blown to consciousness,
Finding intellectual impotence instead on waking,
The same dreary drudgery and directionless destination,
Waiting for calls that never come.

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