the only thing we have in common is my body.

actually this, is no longer true. before that, we had a shared love of our martial arts, a passion for passion, and an undercurrent of smart desire that that made friends of us. it saddens me and pisses me the fuck off that sex always seems the clackety key to opening the door of anxiety, unsuredness, and unfriendship. and that everything after is tainted with the slight stench of awkwardness. and everything, everything is read into. the singularity of words, actions, and gestures contains the unmaking of him and myself. offhand comments – like. this. that. or. this. and. uh – elicits a what the fuck? a fb comment that may or maynot – or may – but probably – maynot – be about regret that he slept with me gets read into a multitude of ways and demands derrida-style deconstruction of his shit and ultimately what it means about our friendship and out future possibilities. the lack of mentioning, the lack of anything is also indicative of how our friendship and relationship is falling apart. because then i wonder about how little i mean to him that he no longer even thinks of me in any way. friend. lover. not.

because after you have sex- and-that-shit-doesn’t-work-out- you lose access. *access* you lose access to easy communication, your friendship, and the ability to fucking reason. the hesitation to saying a quick hello is what kills me the most. before sex, saying hello-how was your day-whatcha doing-how’s your night going-where you at-where you been-who ya seen-what’s up- are handshakes and hugs across time and space that is easy. it is easy to call, it is easy to text, it is easy to reach out. the ease of this, that, that, or the other is now labored silences.