My longing for you swam in a secret place, hidden from light-
incorruptible and criminal at the same time. I will never wake it from its
lust-drugged slumber, I had decided.
But now, we’re both at a party and there’s a chance for a
little dance. A spin with a dangerous romance. You tie my hands up in strips of
coarse crocodile skin and steer me around- the willing puppy-t. My feet, you
bind to your own with shoelaces of plaited leather. We dance. It’s dreamlike. An
enchanted dust is manufactured right there on the dance floor, the particles swirling
slowly, percolating body heat and the thickness of wanting. The ashes of
combustion they are. Combustion of a combined desire. The dust is amorphous but
threatens to crystallise unto eternity if not handled with calculated wantonness.
That’s why you used leather, you whisper; so that neither of us strays from
intention. You tug, I turn. You pull, we embrace. The shimmery gun-powder shrouds
us, absorbs every worry, falls to the floor as photons of dull grey. The effort
has turned our bodies scarlet. The perfect hue to be overcome by, given our state
of satiation.
Let’s jive and grind till we grow tired. Till we’ve burned
off the carnal calories that have been getting in the way of every normal
function. Let’s hold each other tight and spin till we’re lean and wet with
exhaustion. Till we stop producing that intoxicating dust of ours. No more magic
powder to snort. Why would we stick around beyond that? With spent bodies and rent
souls, we must say au revoir. And face
up to the inevitable withdrawal symptoms that present themselves as cruel reality.
I will have secretly stored away some of our private dust. To ease my way back
into grey, the unwelcome successor of red.
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