Tuesday, July 27, 2004

I stand here often, bathed in sultry primary-coloured light, acquiring a blast of wind and pressure in my face from passing vehicles and I inhale the possibility of steeping in front of the pressure, gaze past that damned Ford, and take what fate arrives first.

I want him sometimes; want to extend our relationship and make it real. To walk down a sky-stren paradise of cement blocks, to hover beneath a black abyss of storm clouds, to feel his adrenalin-driven body against mine... To spill forth my thoughts and hushed dark secrets in his ear. I want that, I want his night, I want to take his life in one clean fist and pound it, pound it dirty and pound it mine. My eyes reflecting his. Rest as quiet and stiff as a mourning graveyard in his heaving chest, relax in the cure of warmth, the medicinal value and the monotone of his stirring heartbeat.

The taste of his philosophy in my mouth and the morbid touch electrifying throughout that patch of hard muscle on my shoulder. His hands are rough and still and shadowed and hidden throughout this meadow of clothing and bedding. Pleasure, lust, warmth, dreaming... Falling.

Falling into the arms of someone who cannot fulfil these needs but the thought of him fulfilling them is an arrogant, satisfying fantasy.

And how precious is the false jewel that is bestowed upon me. It still beats and pulsates in my hand and sometimes against my hot breast, but without mine decidedly in unison, it does not illuminate the night.

I want to be his night. I want to be that permanent wall of sky pricked with stars and a moon of glass, I want to be the very picture he sees when he steps outside, the one he loves yet cannot escape.

As I stand here, thinking this deranged and intagible thoughts, the highway welcomes me, and my body, painted in plastic-bright reds and greens, meets the impacts of the busy city with a single quick step upon the gravel and the pavement.

Because My Muse Left Me.


posted by Fuzzy @ 00:00 

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