skipper

you … skipped me like a polished little stone … you couldn’t pitch me away like any sparingly normal human being would (to save me the abrasions to my ego) but threw me decidedly parallel to the plane of passion’s oblivion - the G-forces of sensuality’s fade pulling my integumental id back like plastic wrap over a bowl, and buckling my ”but why?”s shut before I could even form them in my bungled belfry … so, each calculated bounce off that dark, deep surface (soon to be the mortal mire of my devotion) brought an exquisite pain of its very own each, a memory of us - each, a blissful moment of ex-ecstasy that would never foment again - a perfectly imperfect dab of desire doused and drowned in the sea of “see you later” - waters that I once thought were equally precious to you but that now rippled in toroidal rings of sequential loss - a bit of my dignity chafed off with each ricochet … still, what really twisted the knife - what I’ll remember most as I slowly choke on that yawning abyss, is the wry, wrinkled widening of your “who, me?” smile that blossomed with every … intended … skip. Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, July 8, 2024