so she speaks

A fire does not burn forever. Those engulfed with its waves of enchanted warmth will eventually wake to the cold bogg of the harsh morning air. Have we fallen asleep, moreso, have I? Perhaps I should continue to veil my irises, my pupils. My black, empty pupils. Empty of light, heavy with perception. Still, they provide me with the vision to see my dreams, so I cherish them. Dreams are of my own creation something no one can ever take. Yet, no one wants to take your dreams, they only seek to shatter them. I should say I would love to reside in the paradise of my unconscious mind, yet it is never that simple. One easily awakened is not easily soothed again to slumber. Like an infant, awakened in the middle of a night, crying. Crying forever until the mother awakens to the sounds of distress, to the sounds of want. She turns to her left and places a kiss on his brow to reassure herself that the other is still sleeping. She rises from the bed, legs weary, fingers soft and numb, breasts heavy, stomach flattened from the night of digestion, lips smoothed, eyes drooping with seduction, how sleep makes the woman beautiful! Walking slowly she approaches the child, lifts it from its wailing, and holds it to her bosom. Their internal metronome ticks away.

I feel myself slipping into the thorned grasp. Stab me. Cut me. Bleed me. Yet as your grasp tightens, nails digging, penetrating the fragile barrier, the mind becomes intoxicated with your delicious aroma. Placid and vicious. You are both the same to me. But tell me. Tell me, will you be there Sunday morning?