Everything he writes is an ache in your being that won’t let up. It just wants and wants, tugs and gapes and pulls at the strings inside of you you never even knew you were made of.
It is a thickening madness. A gift for which you pay a decadent price.
You become as though a key which does not fit its lock, for the lock cannot exist.
When you reach forth a finger to touch that which you desire, the object will not recoil but must disappear. This is the way of it as it was meant to be from the very beginning.
Your wanting as wide as an ocean, menacing, mysterious, and deep. His existence as a fork-tongued punishment, forever at the edge of your quivering soul without reprieve.
The Mesmerizing Coil of the Serpent. The Glistening Curve of Golden Chalice.
The release which never, ever comes.
As you wish.
Writers mess around, and they are deadly serious. I juxtapose the weighted movement of the midnight pulse against the concrete light of the harsh swath of day. It doesn’t help to tell a thing unless it feels fatal not to tell it.
I once begged a lover to tell me the truth. Tell it to me so completely that when we both looked back over it, we could never go back to the way it was before the telling.
He couldn’t do it.
A well too dark.
The future too much of a cumbersome thing.
There are those among us who can tolerate the suddenly cruel, sumptuous licks of passion, of luscious chaos, and those who can only be crushed by such inconvenient protruding.
The way you find out is in finding out the hard way.
The trick is that there is only one way.
Desire is death.
It cries in your chest.
A crooked wing, a melancholic thing.
The haunted, aimless arching of sweet withheld caress.