My Only Wife

Writing has not only become my life, but also my only wife.

The pen is a phallic symbol, the open book teasing like the open vulva, waiting to accept the liquid ink. Expelled across the pages like some pornographic black-pearl necklace.

Word after word, and line after line. Nonsense and pro-sense, sad songs whispered in my baritone. Happy ones in wonder lust.

The lovemaking follows the rhythms and the rhymes, like the tide ebbing and flowing, the pages shaking, my pen unable to stop writing, or to draw a straight line. Stopping only to rest because my hand can't keep pace with the romantic thoughts in my mind.

Sometimes I just sit and look at her. Blank pages or not. Paying reverence to the way she looks, full, half-full, sometimes with earmarks and torn pages. Waiting for her to simply speak my name, and open the lock that subdues all I really am, my sublime.

One word from her lips could be ten-thousand of the words I write inside. Other times she just stares back at me in silence, content being one held by the other, knowing we can write anytime.

She knows all my secrets, the light and the dark. She knows that I love her because she is my symbolic heart. All that I posses belongs to her. The sun, moon and stars if they were mine to keep. When I sleep I feel the softness of her cover under my cheek.

When the day tears us apart for hours that feel like days, most of that time is spent fantasizing about all the firm feelings I will write about inside her, in so many different positions and wonderful ways.

When I finally return home and pick her up every time feels like the first. Before I have a chance to sit down with her she says; honey how was your day, tell me about your work.

Sometimes I lose my mind and my place, I spin around quick and start my oral reply, wishing you had form and character, hands to caress, real lips that I could taste, hair that I could brush from your face. A body I could hold so tight, to know where mine ends and hers begins you would have to turn on the lights.

All of this in a fraction of a second, then realizing that you're not a real woman. Not of flesh and blood, only pressure and pulp. I can't carry you piggyback or tickle you until you pee your pants. You can't clean the bathroom with my toothbrush and make me mad.

I can't cry on your shoulder, if I did it would wash away all the things I said, and you wouldn't remember how I felt about you before or after we were wed.

Maybe one day like the frog that became a prince, my book will become my princess. How about a kiss?...