The Walk of Shame Aubade

Aidan Aragon

The moon, a loose sequin, dangles from the sky’s slack-jawed maw drooping lower and lower with each of my heavy-lidded blinks, feet dragging against the concrete against the inside of my ear slick and cold from the slip of his tongue, like my satin slip creased around my chest, cheap and smoke smooth, draping over me like the memory of his palm indented in the curve of my step, how my thigh rubs its sister, chafes against the memory of his palm pressed, firm, into that spot, red-pink-purpling, inches away from where he slipped us together, the feel of my legs opening like a sunrise on a cloudless day, eyes rubbed awake enough to slur together the door’s opening groan, a cock’s morning yelp, the yawn of his orgasm a paisley blue handkerchief to wipe spittle from the night’s mouth, my eyes over this groggy city folding into themselves like a sock hung over the doorknob.

Symbioses

Allyson Mills