pasta past midnight

that´s what i said i wanted, right, straight up, and i didn´t lie.
i wanted some cock alright. first you got turned off but then you came back, put those jeans off you had put on back on, whispered over my shoulder into my messy hair. you kind of liked that idea, after all. and there was no need for lying. when maria called things changed, of course, i ate my pasta, you heated up yours and grated some parmesan cheese over it. then we watched cast away and all the words that had gathered at the bottom of my skull like dew drops in an abandoned leaflet, withered away. i saved them for someone i thought to be thirsty but without my glasses i don´t see anything clearly anyhow. things get all blurry and smushy, nice pastell colors smoothing edges and cunts. i saved these my words for him, him, who you can´t be and who is endangered of becoming a metaphor, a highly stylized icon of no avail.
my english isn´t as good anymore but you also notice the mistakes i make and pauses i take when i talk in my mother tongue. the assumed clarity of how your tongue doesn't really pertain to me, fades in and out, like wobbly sound effects - depending on how my body molds into continents complete with seas and rife with deserts. but stark and oddly placid it is very clear, at least, that confusion has its cost. you can´t decide which box to put me in so you juggle many definitions as the night goes by and i can see how i will hurt you with your own words, they have the shape of boomerangs, they will come back and haunt you and probably i will take some blame in this.
you turn around and stroke down my legs. my ass. you call me wild names but nothing suits right.

i don´t know what i am going to do about these pasta dishes.