Simplicity

Simplicity is so complicated.
How difficult to shed the shackles
of modern life, the drives, the assumptions,
the things that cling, us to them,
them to us.

Simplicity is.
The simplicity of my nipples, hard and long,
when he is near,
or when he is not,
when it is the scent of him on his clothes,
or the sound of his voice, so rich and thrilling,
emerging from the box held at my ear.

Then I know I simply am simply me
simply made with simple needs
and fuck the big complex brain
with its constant soliloquy.

Someone tries to take meaning
where it is ungiven
for simplicity's sake
Words are never enough,
they construct problem sets yet rarely solve them
But a different he solved the riddle of me, he thinks,
the slut wasting her talents for the titillation of others

And for simplicity's sake his assumption stands
It means more about him than than it does to me
though I cannot deny the sting
(When did his opinion come to matter to me?)
Let it all go and hope complexity does not have static cling.
Nothing is as simple as it seems.
Not even simplicity.