I hear the neighbors fucking, television blaring in an attempt to muffle the whack of flesh against flesh,the naughty sweet nothings whispered and cried out. It’s foolish to make assumptions. For all I know, it’s the most tender act the two have, the only thing that they truly share, Making love to forget the icy December air, the broken furnace, cracks in the old wallsthat winter seeps through. Making love and the only words I actually catch below the late night program’s isveçbahis audience laughing is in the foreign tongue of a country I can’t even begin to pronounce. Maybe this is the crucial detail missing. Maybe the two have to speak in their first language when being so intimate, speaking of mysterious borders, some oblique shared past that drove them to here, horrors I cannot understand and know only the faintest edges of. It’s foolish to make assumptions. isveçbahis giriş For all I know, they’re rutting like animals pouncing prey, predatory teeth gnashing, nails buried into soft skin like stakes into dampened earth. Maybe it expels some fury, to drive deep inside, to be ruthlessly pierced. I hear the neighbors fucking and however the act plays out, it makes me remember things. Like how I barely sleep now and would probably be awake even if the space isveçbahis yeni giriş they fill was soundless. Like how I think my rage has little to do with the namesbeing moaned through thin walls. I try to remember when I was last touched with such affection, with such urgent needor primal possession. I try to summon the memory of being so entirely envelopedor in the presence of such a beautiful flowering. It’s foolish to make assumptions. For all I know, both turn awayafter an abrupt release, unable to find solace in the crooks of spent limbs. For all I know, the following silence is when they love the most, the best things expressed in the unspoken aftermath. Maybe this is the crucial detail missing.