Running Away with What Freud Said: A Prose Poem

It is September. You are naked, masturbating. The causticity of the Oriental rug disrupts your sloppy rhythm. Outside, a boy and a girl hunt invisible tadpoles on the telephone wires. Oblivion is your flighty, masked mistress...at least, that's how you imagine her as you pathetically convulse, here in the same room where it first happened, three years ago today. There are muted voices and yelps of joy from across the street - it's as if the greedy heat of the Indian summer day stole half the sound waves for herself. There's a half-moon on the nail bed of your left thumb. Has it always been there? You debate whether it's an air pocket or a lack of calcium in your diet...that's when everything goes soft and silent.
The coffee pot coos from the kitchen, "Is that really pleasure?"
She already knew the answer. Perhaps genuine curiosity, or a swollen attempt at solace.