desire attained is not desire.

in silence the leaves move, only when your eyes rest upon them. self-consciousness is of all living and intimate things. everything which pulses can savor pleasure and detect pain, some entwine the two.  the patterns of the skin restructure themselves at the introduction of touch.

i’m waiting for you in a dark room where curtains skim the ceiling and the floors. each shadow encloses a shadow and extends.  all across the city the sky tilts its giant black face up toward a sky of its own, which is below a sky we’ll never reach.

there are some people who possess such a vibration that they can enter a room without physically being present. just the thought of you is enough to send rushing my affection, my desire; to command the taut, prickling attention of my entire being.

on the side table, pillowy blossoms in a gold-stained vase flush crimson with expectation.

as the darkness opens herself to a low glowing simmer, i lay back upon the kingly bed. the rich polished wood of this room stands still, stands close. through a window i can see the moon and the way the clouds thinly veil and then fully expose her in clear cold turns.

my love, for how long. for the minutes are hours and this hour i am held within is the mouth of the breathing of a tortured god. here in my chest, the soft nature of the waiting creature. the patient burning seed.