Burn away the aching muscles, the straining nerves, the sweat and the slick and the stained sheets tangled around tangled limbs. Brush off the lingering quivering of nervous systems in slow-motion, too enraptured with this lascivious act to realize the dance is done, the scene has ended, the curtain and the libido that held it open have reached their pinnacle and toppled. Boil it all down, smaller even than the parts. Delve, perhaps, beyond the sadistic crush of teeth and stabbing fingers. Deeper than the need to feel pain mingled with pleasure, heightening sense like methamphetamines to the point of mania. Deeper than dialated pupils, stretching the limits of ocular lenses to take each other in, soak in the sight as if the mere act of looking could confine every contour of our bodies to memory. Boil it all down and I'm a lecher to your psychotic.
I will feed off you, the way you mold words around your tongue and form them with your lips. I will feed on it as if I am digesting those creations of my own volition, and lust for it as if those words were the iron length that twitches between my thighs at each slurred, sultry syllable. I will eat your words and wish you'd eat me.
Perhaps, then, this is symbiotic. This exotic, no, erotic, no, neurotic display. Is it platonic or a tonic for the chronically chained. I'm all prolific, narcissistic, full of septic disdain, but it's endemic. I can't end it.
You call flaws what I call flawless.
I will sing you songs of sailormen lost, of storms that whip and winter frost, of whirlwind passion, raging hot, siroccos, pain so cruelly wrought, and love so deep that time forgot. I'll sing a web until you're caught. I've hungered now for stranger times to seek my throne between your thighs and plant my grin in bourbon eyes. To supple breast with wicked lips, a groan drawn forth with flicking wrist, to speak of worshipping your hips, in low, discordant hymns.
For all my fear of spiders I would snare you like the firefly and wrap my bloated body in your labrynthine insides.
Insidious as thought may be, it pales to meet reality, for if you are to feed on me, the consequence is dire. For soon the heart that ceased to beat will drum itself, though rhymically, it pounds an army's marching feet, all but slavering desire. Then woe to find this heart of mine is snared itself by some new twine that holds it tight and seeks to bind that which has yet to survive.
You'll find me writing poetry, less of need and more of beauty, and all your kisses running through me. Love, it seems, the light suffusing.
There I'll stand before you, naked. Cowled in rain and cloaked in hatred, staring daggers at the sky, until you beckon me inside.
Quick wit will slow and charm will fade, and lust, though hot, will cool. Then all that's left is me in love with you. The armor I have worn is bent, battered, broken, shattered, rent, and finally just cast aside, for all the good it's done. I will rage and fight and spurn the night, but in the end the battle's won, not by show of strength but by the sight of you bathed in starlight.
Take this huddled, broken man. He's all that's left of me. Where I would yearn to rule the world, he wants to sail the sea. He wants to watch the sun descend, to claim himself a plot of land, and build his life with his own hands where I would turn and flee. Perhaps he's stronger, come to think, than lechery and smoke and drink, the things I cherish now are things, what he will seek or his life brings, I can hardly see.
When you reach the clearing at the end of the path, I hope you'll both sing of me.
Yours,
-S.R.
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