2005-03-13

Muted Massacre

Whispers of words in French in my ear, and I melt, under the pond-cold moonlight. I like the hands that wrap around and search through and conquer my thin waist, and I feel so incredibly safe.

In the moonlight, I�ll steal glances at the perfectly sculpted face that stares directly at me: with eyes transfixed on the invisible puppet, who loops pleasure around his wooden finger. And I�ll hold on tighter, and the sheets rustle silently, yet, violently.

The muted massacre.

My soft lips pout as I look up at him, pleadingly and for something unknown�not to stop�but, I know I must be searching for a more profound intensity. My black hair lays spread�like sating shawl�across the white, cloud-fluffed pillows while I grip onto his milk-soft skin.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, there are papers not yet looked over. There are tasks not yet completed. There are books gone unread. There are people whom have been abandoned.

All in the back of my mind, and faded and drowned inside the lead, champagne-dusk. We�re under the antique gold now, and isolated within one period of time.

Mornings are white, bringing the chill of snow and the refreshing, ashy wind. I think of evergreens in my mind while he lay asleep, and beside me. There�s little to no difference now between my youthful, firm skin and his. All the lines of difference suddenly become blurred within passion and morning�s utter nudity.

He moves�his back is towards me now, and I�m still sitting on the bed, nude. The skin on my lips tastes faintly of the cherry, SPF-15 lipbalm I use, and my lips somewhat stick to his shoulder after kissing it. And I lean in closer, and kiss his neck.

He wakes up, and so do I�missing him.

aeka at 8:15 p.m.