Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.

She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.

Miss you terribly already,
Miss the space between your eyelids,
where I’d stare through awkward sentences
and avoid through awkward silence

Miss your teeth when they chatter,
when we smoked out in my garden
When we couldn’t sleep for all the heat,
soft talk began to harden.

Miss your small hands in the palm of mine
The fact they’re good at making,
Miss your sitting up incessantly,
And the fact you’re always waking in the night, night.

And I,
I hope for your life
You forget about mine
Forget about mine

Miss your teeth dug in my shoulder,
as we rolled in early morning,
Miss your arm dying beneath me,
as I lay there simply yawning

Please forget me, you were right dear,
I am cold and self-involved,
And though I’ll miss you, recent lover
I am weak and therefore fold

Get distracted by my music,
think of nothing else but art
I’ll write my loneliness in poems,
If I can just think how to start

Dot my i’s with eyebrow pencils,
Close my eyelids, hide my eyes,
I’ll be idle in my ideals,
think of nothing else but I.

I, and I

And I,
I hope for your life
You can forget about mine
Just forget about mine
Oh, mine.

Keaton Henson

Sleep.

And all through the creases
And velvet
And dusk

You still love me endlessly 
You do

Everything is nice.
 My tongue,
 forehead,
 knees, and eyes

 tingle. 

Everything is perfect. 
I’m happy and now
 my lips. Peace 
but then 
my thighs.  
And slowly move
 each way 
toward my cunt.

You smell like smoke. 
And 
our chills. Get only
Closer. 

Delicious bliss. 

And yet my teeth. Believe
This. 

How comfortable in my paranoia
How the electricity creeps 
God hearing things 
Like rape 
For the numb teeth

Water

You touch is worn
Your kiss it spikes
Drawn in your torn
Poor licks your likes

How easily it is to
speak to me ,  despite the knowledge of my grief.
 In all this I’m more than aware that I am the more bloated one, 
my body is awkward, 
and my pride kills.

 I am nor light enough to indulge
 in the slumber of my car, 
but instead I consent to watch you break chairs and emotional baggage. 

I can’t comprehend how much I miss you. 

How my living seems only the more dull without you. 

And how lonely that sounds.
I live in a writer ‘s mind. 

None of you people are real. 

i wish you wouldnt

“I thought we could try something different…just for a change.”

We’d been married for 10 years now, and hearing the two-glasses-is-enough-darling man utter these words, came as a total shock to me. I looked over to see my grey husband holding a tired looking box. The edges were roughly fixed together with sticky tape, and peering out from the top was the anxious eyes of man not entirely sure what to say.

“What do you mean?” I asked, somewhat curious to find out the secret inside the box; the bedroom secret that maybe my not-so-boring husband had been keeping from me. Maybe this was what we needed: I wasn’t a prude to the idea of handcuffs or leather, dress-ups and role-play could always be fun and (dare I say it?) sexy. We’d attempted anal not long ago and was somewhat unsuccessful with his incessant inquiring over my comfort, plus his awkwardness with a simple bottle of lubricant.

My husband paused a moment, sat up and opened the box. “Well I thought…maybe you could wear this? I…I’d like you to wear this while we make love.”

My mouth fell open a trifle as my darling picked out a crude, paper-mache torso and breasts. The waist was tiny with two garishly large breasts – much, much bigger than my own handful-sized ones. Tiny pieces of chicken wire stood out from beneath the garment, and the room instantly filled with the smell of tacky poster-paint. The nipples were roughly drawn on with a last-minute felt-tip brush: in all I felt less than special.

The torso lasted no more than a night – we “made love” with the special occasion of being allowed on top for once, being ruined by my husbands sweaty hands clawing at the costume. I’d never heard him moan before now.

Needless to say I left him the following week.