Theory & Practice

She was the one people write about.
I was the arm chair philosopher
She didn't like me just for my cock
I didn't like her just for her brains
We didn't see each other often
But we lived for when we did,
So I could fuck the stories out of her
Like a literary mistress living out the high culture of Miller and Nin.
And she. She would empty my fount into her deep memory banks to sharpen her pen.
Stories of infidelity, hedonism and the dark corners of death and survival.
Countered only by my iridescent ramblings of mythological underpinnings of the human tragedy
And how our soul grows up and out through tragedy.
To reassure her that she is a very capable woman
Living the path that only she can.
Only told through the mouth of her silken sheath.
One story she never told me was the one where she loved me.
Instead it was enveloped in her lips wrapped around my hard concepts
I told her I loved her.
In the most intelligent and scholarly way I knew how. It would have made a good thesis.
Her experiences inspired my academic prowess. Like a subject to be explored in all its deepest glory.

She wanders today the same way I wander. Except no stories this time. And books are collecting dust as I observe the moving walls.
I was just a story.
She was just a theory.
But fuck philosophy, she had a great pussy.