v u l v a l i c i o u s
I'll Miss her Cunt
What was hers was never mine, and I knew this from the beginning, but I miss the idea that it could have been. I really do.
And that's not to say that we'll never come together again, that her cunt will never pass mine on the street, exchange a meaningful glance, and ask for a coffee date. And it's not to say that the coffee date will never lead to more serious things, to her cunt staying over at my place til the wee hours of the morning, talking and laughing and making shy advances.
No, I think our cunts will still flirt with one another. I think they'll enjoy the casualness of their mutual company and revel in the night that once was without too many shades of weirdness.
But at the same time, I am sad that her cunt will belong with someone else now, even if the permanence of the other cunt is hardly set in stone.
Stone. Part of me hopes her cunt will harden again, lose its malleability and salty softness as it did for so long; that it will close itself up like an ancient tomb, stone not rolled away from its sweet-freedom entrance for years upon years.
And part of me wishes her cunt days and months and years of water-wetness and deep kisses and joy and deep, intense, beautiful pain that makes waves crashing on beaches seem dull and passionless. Part of me wishes her the soft happiness that I can feel alone, the confidence I don't need her to give me, the things that bring my cunt joy.
I like that duality, the pull between the cunt forces I feel: There's a richness there that makes me feel like a deep yet healing wound, dark and beautiful and strange and a million things incomprehensible.
My cunt and I will miss the possibility of her and hers, but I think we'll survive. We've always done it before.
Let the cunt light shine on and on and on.