Chaper 2 The edge of paradise MM and me

Where do I start?  A cascading myriad of mood swings that parallel on an infinite universe of road blocks.  One day he wanted all the things life had granted him.  Another day, he would lose the essence of those mental objects he possessed due to his own contrary nature - a legume of dark secrets known as his blockheaded mind.

She wasn't cultured for such a socially marginalized creature- restricted by the fact that he built this self enclosed barrier.  His drinking made it impossible for him to drive on weekends, a pre planned crutch that prevented the possibility of a real date.  As far as awareness, he was acutely aware of most things that created this moment, the moment where he chose to fully abandon the sweetness of life into a prolonged mourning of his second wife, Tamia.

His impression was deep, like a moon crater that assaulted her being, in fact, every inch of her body was awakened to his texts, phone calls and late night siestas.  She was bound to him purely in a physical sense, his background didn't matter or the signs.  His mind was a loose tunnel of curves and overtures, dancing to the moment of nocturnal arousal.

Every time she missed him, if she wrote it down, the loose papers would pile up to the ceilings of heaven and then perhaps float into an oblivion of amplified feelings. That is how she felt when she left him for one week in California but their communication intensified.  Texts became pictures, he was locked into visuals.  Visual pictures is what stimulated him not actual words.

The urge to resist him was stronger than the need to devour his flesh.  In a more somber moment, she once said, "I know who I am in Christ."  She quoted a Bible verse and said, "Do you know this one?"  In a moment's pause, he said "I really don't know the scriptures that well." He claimed to know God but God was a remote figure to him, ready to strike him down if he strayed off the path.

The meandering ground level of his house had ancient schrapnel traps of a family life suspended and a lifestyle set back to the 90s.  He had pictures of himself as a young child and a picture of his father in his 20s which he showed off frequently.  He belonged to a place nobody could reach, a place preserved in time before the hurt tore him apart like a refugee. He kept his family picture of Tamia in the closet.  The wave of blue carpet enriched her feet after sex which led her in darkness to the bathroom, adjacent to the kitchen.  He refused to turn on any lights.  She sometimes b-lined to the fridge where he had mini Orange gatorades.  Her thirst was often quenched after the ritual. Their shared bottle of mouthwash was on the upper shelf in the bathroom.  The orange gatorade combined with the sting of mouthwash rekindled her.  He had sucked the orifice out of her being each night, his tongue protruding each inner part.  His lips were red and ripe, she loved his lips and every willing thing he was anxious to do.  She equally pleased him in a way that would make him quiver and draw up his fists out of pleasure.  Their communion was like a humming engine in the night coupled with the dark seed of winter and high snowbanks. 
It was fulfillment at its best.
In bed he was the Green Lantern, but outside of it he was a man full of doubts, fragile thoughts and somewhat regressive.