“I think Alex and Sandra are coming for Christmas,” Ashley says to me from the other end of the couch. “It was nice visiting them in Chicago over Halloween, taking the kids out with Fiona, but I think he likes your fishing excursions.”

I nod, listening. Sandra and Alex are our family, and I want them to stay in Tennessee. I have told Alex this. Through Ashley’s chosen family, I have found the benefits of society. They are vast, and these relationships are priceless.

“Also, I’d like for you to admit that I made an excellent point about the flaws in Linas Vepstas passage of time theory. I’m not saying I believe in predestination, but as my momma would say, predestination makes everything part of the plan.”

“It is an issue of quantum mechanics, Ashley, a universe of probability. Determinism of any sort is impossible.”

“Yes, but you assume time travel is impossible. Even Einstein never conceded as much. You and I are meant to be, and you’ve acknowledged that point. Therefore, you must admit that factors beyond our control, or perhaps our ability to comprehend, may have a hand in determining our path.”

“I admit nothing.”

“Typical….” She makes a little sound, and it makes me smile. “What are you writing?”

“Field notes.”

“If those are field notes then I’m a one-eyed Cocker Spaniel with halitosis.”

This makes me laugh, but I don’t stop writing. I think I’ve never laughed in my life as I have since knowing Ashley. She brings a spark to all things, lights every empty place.

“Read it to me,” she says, nudging me with her toes.

I look down, away from where my notebook rests on the side table. Her toes are painted pink, and they sparkle, and they are on my lap. She wiggles them like she’s waving at me with her feet.

“Please,” she says.

My eyes travel the length of her and enjoy her form. The shade and shape of her legs, heightened by shadows cast from the single light source. She’s reclining on the couch, eReader propped on her stomach.

Desires war. As such, I can only watch her in stillness.

I need her.

When I write, speaking is an obstacle. I struggle to abdicate thoughts that are shadows of my feelings and passions. Giving words to these feral impulses never does them justice because they are not my will; their course leads to no action, and expressing them is an exercise in unceasing frustration. But withholding them from the page is a path to insanity.

I once tried to burn the words, thinking passage through fire would release me. I was wrong. I mourned the loss, and rejoiced when I found the book had been saved.

“Drew, will you read it to me?” Her eyes remind me of the ocean.

I shake my head. “Not yet.”

Her smile widens. She peers at me as though she knows me. She does. She knows me.

“We’ve been together, what? Almost a year now? And I can count on one hand the number of times you’ve read your poetry to me out loud. Besides, you’re giving me that look.”

“What look?”

“Like I’m cake, so I know it’s a good one.” Her eyebrows move up and down.

I continue to smile, but I say nothing.

Words are clumsy things. Raw, wild, hunger, need, desperation, fascination do not adequately define how I long for her complete capitulation. I want her to weep. I want to quietly tear her apart and lovingly watch her bleed. I crave knowing that I can inspire one tenth of the torment she inspires in me. How can I speak such things out loud?

I need her.

Her surrender, mine to possess and exploit. This ambition remains intangible because, though I feel it, I do not wish it. I communicate this greed only through poetry, and poetry serves as an imperfect allegory.

Ashley huffs. Her eyes narrow. I know the workings of her mind; she is contemplating trickery. She sets her eReader to the floor and comes to me on her knees, her arms around my neck, her breasts pressing against my shoulder. I lament the invention of clothes.

“Drew, if you won’t read to me, maybe you’ll sing for me?” Her lips are close to mine and I need to taste her.

I shake my head, keeping my words soft so as not to betray the ferocity of my need. “No, Sugar. Not tonight.”

“Are you going to the jam session with me tomorrow? Cletus is back in town, and I’m bringing coleslaw for the twins.”

“Yes. We should go.” I’m coming out of the tunnel and speaking, communicating is less cumbersome.

“And you will sing for me then?”

“Yes, if you’ll sing with me.”

“It’s a deal.” She seals it with a kiss and I don’t let her go. I take her sweet mouth until I feel her grow restless. I close my book and turn away from it. I remove the veil of her clothes and I settle for being the implement by which she loses control.

I would never hurt her, not through action, deed, or word. I long to soothe her, pet her, hold her fears, burden her sorrows, be the instrument of her ecstasy. I am her safe place and she is mine.

I need her.

Being the method of her madness fuels me. I watch her pant, feeling her uncontainable hot breath spill against my skin, and it is like water to the thick weeds that tangle and choke my ignoble instincts.

I should not always like to write poetry. I should like to live it.

But if I could pick and choose the poems I live, I would not always be joy, nor would I want inert contentment. Sorrow and struggle bring gravity to the soul and to the mind, a gravity that cannot be achieved through mere happiness. We are most awake to the world and to our own longings and desires when we suffer.

Ashley stretches, arching her back, and the lithe movement demonstrates how powerless my body is to the promise of her body, and with it, the promise of pleasure, of vulnerability, of communal closeness. Her hands are above her head, and her obsidian hair tangles with pale arms. I hold her wrists.

If sorrow as a force is gravity, and mere happiness is inertia, then love and being in love is momentum. A force built upon actions of the past, moving us.

We move.

I see her. She is beneath me. Her body is slick, yielding softness, sweetness replete. I want to worship, yet need to possess. I suffer because she is forever anticipation, even when I hold her, fill her, taste her, dominate her, consume her.

I need her.