"It did pass through my mind that someday, is he going to say, 'Mom, why'd you let me do this?' But we talked about it for a long time, and it's something he never changed his mind on," she said.

The other night Andy talks to me about reflection. 

He says that sometimes in writing you have to perceive the image’s reflection in order to completely digest the exchange. 

It makes me wonder if you’ve ever really been in love with me, when you hold me desperately from behind, grappling for entrance.

After kissing my shoulders you put your head on my chest running your finger in circles around my nipple.  

You feel around for my zipper and when you cannot find it, you begin nervously tapping your fingers against my lower back, whispering passwords into my ears. 

You have a remarkable appetite for disdain.

My mouth parts as your breath heats every sound. 

When it opens your hands carefully glide up my back and over my shoulders, pausing momentarily under my jaw before abruptly reaching in and snapping it back. 

You reach your right arm inside rifling it underneath my shoulder bone, helplessly toward my fingertips. 

When you cannot reach them, you turn, confronting true cosmos as your left hand reaches in grazing my molars. 

With one enormous leap you curl your feet and legs inside and I swallow you down. 

Your feet burst through my hamstrings and you become four-legged. 

Two flabby arms hang lifelessly at my wrists. 

When you finally sit back onto my calves we are sharing a calm and constant river. 

My head drops backward and you follow my lead, never quite wrapping my mouth completely over yours. 

Curling inside me you fall asleep under the wet mess of my remaining flesh. 

I have no reason to believe you’ve ever been more comfortable.