Use

There was something in us that wanted to be debased. Sometimes we made love, but I could count those times on your fingers. The other times we screwed, fucked, used each other the way you might use sandpaper or a toilet brush. Why did I love when you took me by the hair, left bruises on my chest, put your hands around my throat? You loved it when I threw you down, held your arms behind your back. Was that love in the aftermath or just the dreams of a sleeping animal, and how does any of this fit with walking silently on the beach, the moon thin as a string, holding onto each other by our pinky fingers?