My mind begins to wander the second I open my eyes, and you follow shortly after. Each train of thought, meandering like a lazy river through the hills, latches onto the next, and the next, and the next, and you cling to all like sweet autumn fog. I find myself turning back to you, more and more often. Not to make sure you're still there, still sitting atop these thoughts like Moses on the mountain. I turn to make sure I haven't been led awry. You haunt me, like nothing else has haunted me. I find myself at odds, pacing, casting periodic glances at the walls, the windows, walking the length of my house like an animal, no, staggering and lifeless as a zombie.
I don't need to breathe, or eat, or sleep, or drink, or fuck anymore. I don't need to speak, or sing, or smoke, or bathe or pray. Nothing. I need only exist, and the mind, where you are ever present, takes care of the rest. You are the rest. I wake to the taste of you on my lips and never know from where it came. My nerves are on fire, straining aainst the bonds of flesh that keep them from your questing fingertips, your wandering mouth, the sweet, deep places where I can feel myself pouring, without ever doing it at all. I feast on you, and I am full. I drink you down, and I am sated. I inhale the scents that become wrapped in your hair, your pores, your clothes, and I need nothing else.
This is nothing like love, nothing like obsession, and yet, it becomes something akin to both. Something raw, something primal, something entirely synthetic, not entirely dilberate, and nothing at all. I rave somewhere in the center of my body, bashing against organs and blood vessels, crushing my bones from the inside. I shriek like a lunatic, and hear it reverberate when the blood hammers in my ears. I think I'm having a fucking stroke, and then I start to fucking stroke it.
I'm watching you with carnivorous intent, wearing a suit of silver armor. I'm so contested with myself I've started tearing suits in half and sewing them together like fashion frankensteins. Grey-blue, blue-grey, so on and so on. I carry a blue lightsaber and shoot lightning from my fingers.
No, those aren't right. This isn't good and evil. This is something much, much more ridiculous. I feel like a child. A hungry, murderous, horny child. Or maybe I feel like a monster. A passionate, poetic, adoring monster. I'd just as soon slurp your eyes from their sockets as I would write you a pedestal that rose to Valhalla. I would make you into a goddess or pull out my kidneys and wrap them as a gift. I can't decide. I'm self-destructive or self-constructive. I need you, I want you, I have to destroy you. Something, fuck, I told you this was stupid.
And all of it, all of it, is dust in the wind, baby, if you won't have me one way or the other. I'm neither asking nor assuming. I am consuming. I am one, I am all, I'm above and beyond.
I feel so divine when we entwine and I'm inclined to design and be kind, while my mind is behind, and rewind, and a feel fine for a time, but its mine and I'm maligned to the side and the size and the eyes are disguised and you die, or I die, or we die, and this night is fucking over. I end up as nothing, disgusting, discussing and fussing for something that's fucking just rusting somewhere out to sea, and it sucks to be me, but I scream without purpose or purchase and fall toward the earth and just curse and its worthless, I hurt it and skirted the blame, and I fed the remains to the almight flame and I claim that I love you but I would destroy you and toy with the body while we sat there rotting, if I die when you die then we die and it's all mine.
Sometimes the words rhyme without actually making a point or saying anything. I have given you examples. This is what you do to me, I think. I offer up my words, my little phrases, my clever jokes, my innuendo, my pride and joy and when I see them sat beside you they seem paltry and useless. You terrify me, and I have no idea how to react. I can see you and touch you and seem well at ease, but the centrifugal force of being around you is tearing the sinew and the muscle and the filthy things inside me in every direction. I feel huge, powerful, and deified in one moment, and like a lightbulb next to a lightning storm the next. You are all my strength and all my weakness and more. I am beholden to you, betrothed in some significant way. You are a preternatural beauty, like something from a dream, something from Shakespeare's idea of Midsummer, or Milton's Eden. You are wraith-like, enigmatic, erratic. I am an addict.
Take me, keep me, eat me. I am at your mercy.
Neurotically Yours,
-S.R.
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