There are days when I crave his words more than his touch. Exhibit, a series of instant messages from Michael that left me gasping:

Fuck me until I cry.
Fuck me until I pass out and keep fucking me until you’re done.
Fuck me like I’ll die when you let go.
Fuck me until your name is a prayer on my tongue that I can’t articulate over my gasps.
Fuck me ragged until you scrape away the rough edges and mend my jaggedness like a river-washed stone.
Fuck me broken. Fuck me whole.
Fuck me until I forget my hangups, my catch-22 codes and the traps by which I condemn myself.
Fuck me until I remember that sex is good, love is straightforward and it is ok to just be held.

After he wrote all this, I observed that he never hesitates to turn casual conversation into poetry. He insisted that he didn’t know anything about having a casual conversation.