Paranoid Matter

3am, post-sex, maybe nothing else is alive; there is a feeling in my bedroom a beating heart that channels our vibe through a scope of importance, makes this moment important. 

The parts of me that are left cold will not let me think that there is anything romantic about                sweaty naked bodies, cellulite tumbling, stubbly legs prickling, curly hair damp and finding mouths; I take her hand in mine, feel the callouses that mar her fingers, lay my thigh atop hers, inhale her warmth through a grinding of skin cells.

The air conditioner turns on and goose bumps lift from her skin. Thin blond hairs stand rebelliously straight from her pores. She is rebellious. We are rebellion.

And her body, her body, her body is just a body; there is a transformation from the sacred into the profane and I need to start over, erase, restart, need to reflesh so that we are not flesh, become nothing more or less than souls, just air and emotion that takes up no real space, don’t quantify as matter at all,

don’t matter, at all.

She lays, eyes locked on mine as if it’s not 3am but is a normal time instead, as if we are normal people, nuclear parents in the townhouse on the corner street by the elementary school, instead of one girl cold, one girl warm, trying to exist in the same air without clashing. I wonder how long this distinction will last, I wonder, what would we be like if we were normal? I wonder how long we have until denial is no longer enough to stop nature, and disaster comes.