Friday, November 12, 2010



( just a written daydream.)

He is tall, with perfect skin.his hair is dark, his eyes are piercing. His hands are large, most of the time cold,but soft.His heart is honest, his soul is pure. his lips are of passion, his body - of fire.

I'm the only one that glistens in his pupil

I'm the only song that captivates his thought

I'm the only wonder, he has yet to decipher

I'm the only rose he picks without a thorn

he is french, he shows me this place.he takes me around, and places flowers of the town in my hair.

I know he understands the storm inside me, by the way his eyes scream words at me,

while he silences when I explain...

the warmth of the room when I come out,dressed in my red dress,and i ask him to fix the back.the way he pauses in ocean length,as his silly fingers fumble,tremble.

He teaches me words and laughs at my terrible pronunciation, struggling accent. I smile back at him,and tap his nose with my finger, teasing,pulling his ear, and loudly gasping at his harmless mockery he laughs and pulls me close, his sweet chuckle, his big grin...

It's all childish chaotic clown fun, until my eyes hypnotize him. Luring him into my sincere siren song. He's mesmerized, and held captive in the tiny precious trinket of my love,and overall existence.

Hung mouth slowly hes reeled in..a trance I share. I feel quickly likewise,as the poison of amour sets my skin, the moment we touch...electricity that zaps through us as fast as electromagnetic waves. Ricochets up my arms;Veins of a love tree,Evergreen anorexic branches tightly entwining and raveling up my chakra. A burn that blisters but quickly cools and shivers.

I bite my lip,and my eyes trickle down the glass of his eyes,

the slopes of his nose,

to the satin of his lips.

His hands slowly cuff my face,and he pulls me into his aura-feeding off of him, breathing into him. My oxygen. my feeding tube. Heavy breath and fog on window glass. hes warm and static, hes sweat and cool water. hes ache and ecstasy. dirt on hands. A dying fly. A child born. A needle prodding my skin. The light reflecting off its disinfected silver point. He stares at me deep until our lips meet each others,and he kisses me deeper.

My heroin, If I was sick. So enticing... I would crawl on my hands and knees for him.

dig my nails into a wall,

scrape my back against the wood,

his hand tightly around my throat, he whispers how fucking hard he loves.

tears and blood.

the only river he would decide to cross,no matter how dangerous the current.contradiction, indecisive splashing motion.or troubled the tide,that continuously builds and lessens- without warning.without a helpful mare, without a strong rope to hold his way back, just in case he regrets. without caution,he would proceed without procrastination.

the apple of his choice,the only.if "only" was a word this society and this age could fathom. could believe.could understand,or take seriously.

if there was, an "only.." I.. would surely be his only.

im the love, he cuddles sweetly in his arms

snuggling his face against mine,resting on my shoulder,calm

im the chosen strand of hair he tangles, and curls around as we lay ,

hand in hand, soul in soul

the only lips he kisses..

I feel him inside me even when he is miles and feet away.

his babydoll. his rosegirl.

he says he loves how delicate i am,

and how he makes me whimper and scream

yet burst with tears in my eyes from laughter

he says he knows, he could crush my life in his hands,but its he who chooses not of that power.

he is handsome, he is youthful.his legs are long,his fingers are slender-his shoulders are broad,but humble.

his gentle lamb heart,and strong lion skin.

the way he loves me through christ,

and loves christ through my eyes.

I could kiss him allover, his articulation, his endless intellect

his brain is pretty, he likes to read, and ponder.

Gather information, store every detail of the universe through the files of his core. his eyes are the pridefully decorated windows, the door to which his avid yet gentleman hands lead the guests- (the thought) up-stairs to process. he smooths out his tuxedo,and lifts up his swanky hat,smiling as these strands of Madame philosophy and Monsieur knowledge make their way, settle themselves at home into his head.

his spirit is prettier, the way he takes my hand and we run down hills and into rivers,under night skies,we dress the railroads in drenched clothes,and i tease by laying out in the middle of the tracks.he runs to me and quickly picks me up in his arms,carrying me off,we roll down the field in laughter...covered in wild soil, dirty grass. Mud in my hair, and small tears in my summer dress as he runs his hands over my face and takes me, right then and there. The stars and tall weed, our only witness. Hes as beautiful as the moon. My moon man.

i love his vest, i love his old rugged jacket. At night,after we make love in winter, I sometimes wake up and stand to collect it, from whatever place it sloppily drapes over. We both detest the broken heater.

he is beautiful,thats why when he looks me in my eyes, for once, i do not sheepishly look away.for once, i do not bow my head in fear or shame

he sits at his desk in our small flat,hes at work when his glasses are on. see how his eyes are so serious, that his lips wrinkle sternly with unyielding concentration.

i adore walking up to him,whistling and twirling,obnoxiously clucking my tongue and dragging my shoes until he turns to me,with a smirk.

carefully taking a seat on his lap,he analyzes my every move, like its a dance. everything here,is slow motion.

my legs fall along side of him,he leans back,and i let his hands slowly slide over my body, up my back then down again, resting firmly at my waist. mon beau. vampire, I call . he begins to bite my neck as my head falls back, i make sounds

if he died tomorrow, i would not sink from what he took away,

but fly for what he momentarily blessed me .

he is of no flaw,that is why, when he speaks of frustration at unfortunate occasion,

or in riddles of sorrow, and self worry -doubt compulsion,

i sail my ship as close to this cove and plant down inside, a promise i cannot make, of his life- or forever mine, but through the lace of this world or the next, i build fires and collect fruit for food, make shelter on his forsaken island, gifting him with eternal innocence and love from me to always come

here within his heart,i reside but true love doesn't demand the rent.mmm.

I nurture his trust, and protect his joy. In my hands, it softly sleeps on the texture of my careful gloves. I would eat for him. I crawl on my hands and knees to him.

our days are photography, black and white filters,

detrimental sharpness, composition, clarity and obsessive concept.

two artists are explosive.

the way he wipes away scars from the claws of past hunting hawk lovers. He washes away any scent or recognition of the first letter of their names. his compassion and love for me eases any nightmare of how they hauntingly circled around my memory of my broken past.

the only one who promised to never hurt me,and never did.

those hands... the way they slide over every detail of my skin, every bruise and bone,he makes me feel beautiful.

he told me he loved the land of my body, every arch is a meadow, every curve is a lake.

the way i could fall asleep or faint when he explores me,with every fingertip .

my equilibrium jolts and spills in every direction like the grape juice i accidentally spilled once on our carpet.

at the same time of drowning in this exhilarating peace and tranquility,

i am falling through a twilight of a junkies rush,abstract and raw, as he finds his way ontop.

my own hair in my eyes, breathing him in again.

my heart pounds through my chest,ticks like the rabbit, and spirals into madness,as the hatter.

I just want to run somewhere.. or work frantic and fast, burning off this high he is filling my veins. my eyes roll back,as i fall back deeper and deeper into different galaxies and dimensions of euphoria as i OD on his love..

I see fuzzy neon,visual inversion,velvet glow,swirls of glitter dust and warmth.

these reflections,these patterns.

Im just swimming and spinning;swaying and floating, seeping and drowning;twirling and soaking.. in a beautiful swirl and warping psychedelia,whirlpool of neon andromeda.

i see flying fish and swimming birds.

i love the way he stands in front of our open pale drapes, most mornings

the cold sunrise shatters its way unto my body, as im entwisted in these soiled sheets

light is burdening, as i rub my eyes,and see his silhouette there,barely existent, for blinding and contrasted out by the brightness

he stands shirtless,staring beyond the buildings and streets

he inhales another drag of his cigarette. we all have our addictions? a habit he possesses long before our meeting. I'll break his though. or at least help him. he'll soon quit for many reasons, but initially one, I fantasize because and for me.

i love the way he develops photographs of random flower pots or Polaroids of our last nights dinner boxes

of me lounging in bed in only my messy hair,socks and underwear.the way we've built our collection of written words inside soft and hardcover spines,upon the bookshelf

the way our ways are covered in art

the way i sing to become his housewife

the way he fixes my bangs,so every brunette strand aligns,and falls out of my eyes

I say thank you in english,

he raises eyebrows and lowers his chin,

this means he wants me to recite the word correctly in french

I forgot,its a part of me learning. his oh so strict, yet adorable teaching..

i laugh,and bat my eyes in slow movement, i feel my own iris melt,

he even turns my blinking into red visions and body vibration

everything with him, is new, intense, different.

he places his thumb under my eye and smears down the dark liner,licking his lips, pouring out his heart..i can already see the thought stir in his mind, for they reflect of my own. this pleasure... reality... of him..of this... bliss.

i crawl closer,and whisper...


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