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A calm wind breaks through the sun-kissed shadows of our patio furnishings. As summer draws to a close, its reprisal’s nippy. You are a suited gentleman who works … somewhere important. For fear of appearing forgetful, might I emphasise my disdain for what distracts from our love-making? You see, I married you because I liked the way you kept your shoes polished, the way your coffee would match my tortoiseshell baguette, the way your lips grow dry as the day crawls to end, and perhaps most of all the way my fingers might slip through your thin hair with ease. I could go on, but please don’t mistake my shallow breath for shallow feeling. I know there’s more to our love than the ever-changing variables of our peers’ relationships, and so I’ve never cared to enquire into what you no doubt find just as mundane and suffocatingly oppressive yourself.
I have kept my body pure for you all this time. No other man’s touch could further cement in me a belief that this love is like a blissful fear, a joyous anxiety, a devastating longing, like lighting a candle and accidentally burning the tip of your thumb. Still, the candle is lit, you’d surely agree. It’s not just in the way your rough hands handle me, it’s in the way I’ve kept my body soft for them; the way I dry out all my love and tears for you with velvet that — might I add — matches your suede shoes.
A dark bouquet to serenade the powers that be, there’s little cognition to the way you’ve turned to embrace me every day and every eve. The truth is — should I be correct in my studies — there is little to disrupt the perception of the conforming, ordinary spouse that you have chosen to see within me. That choice, however, may be what I have chosen to see within you. For when the sky sinks black and you have long drifted into dream, my love for you turns invasive. I grow out of my lace slip and shelter my shelled complexion in only the bluest of moonlight. It is there that I call upon the power of the darkest arts, conspire with the depth of the astral groove, and harness Hell’s flame to light a candle that might otherwise scorch my skin. I write to you now as one of these critical affirmations. My sentiments might surely settle into seed if I were to approach the climax of all of my time spent here alone with thoughts of you and your body, until my gasps are evenly matched by howling foxes, and I’m wet with poison.
I drape your life in white geraniums and solid carnations, and forge your love for me on a Friday, in Venus’ fur and steel trim. I split open my lips and form a seal of wax, and then delicately encase our love in my mouth with a milky potion. I ensure the seal is crisp before considering my efforts vain, then feel for my obscured pistil, which assures me akin to an enchanted compass. The venom makes its way down to these pages, each passage carefully encrypted with my showering code, like the kind you may so carefully craft at the office.
These are the same dark crusades that enriched me with effeminate occupation, fit me so snugly into my furs, convoked in you a love for me, and more importantly made me loveable. That is how, as the sun kisses the table and I pour out another dose of sentiment, I make love to your stomach and set aside your evening tea. You take the first sip and I imagine myself in your throat, in the hopes that I could dress the lining of all your heart’s warmth with my rogue-bleached signage, my initials stitched into your soul. And with your first step out the door, I begin preparing you the perfect apple crumble for your return. And as I watch the fruit mixture bubble in sync with my blood, I relish in knowing that this is a recipe few may ever know.
Posted Sep 17, 2022, 11:02 PM UTC · edited