Pure Admiration
TEll me this is not good... ass whooping you will receive ;p
threemileisle
"We bore through your skin on a smug autumn night. Deep plastic handles adorn the drill, spinning so stilly that even light does not touch it. Every fiber tenses against the outrage, every tendon cracks against the slick sweat of your white t-shirt. A glint off in the corner where the shadows lay, taut. A trespass and a violation. Then we burst through the tissue thin layers to reach the jagged bones that you yourself burned away. Burn, not with acid nor fire, but with a base. A basic solution and a basic deception. Now what? You've drawn me in with the sugar sprinkled upon your lips and then the gyrations of your hips. Intrigue in a picture book that has provided the outline of black chalk but no color between the lines. There is no equlibrium. You fall and the Earth is the slightest flicker in our periphery. The stars are large bulbs as we continue descending into the mystery of the skies. The enigma of you, into the unexpected, into a place that I've walked past a hundred times before. What'll you do now? The heavens are shaped in a half-crescent; this crater is ours; it is the chain that binds me to you in a prison I've never been willing to forsake. Now, with walls sloped towards the edges of the moon for us to hang from, hand to foot, foot to hand. A dance if you will, of interlocking steps to map the terrain. A step back, hands tightly gripped, a step left in defiance of our embrace, a step forward and the dance goes on, without rhythm, without conclusion. Where is the consolation now? A ribbon to cling from my brow? A trophy at my feet? What good will that do me? Acclaim from the unrecognized whose every glance slides off me like hot wax that has been sitting with a flame too long? I want flesh.. living, breathing flesh with a heartbeat that mirrors my own. A thump in your chest and your thoughts flow through to me. A tick of the clock's third hand and my emotions are yours in instant recognition. A montage of suffering that I have stashed inside myself; my personal collage of unrealized yearnings and of every single prayer that my breath has ever given the stark, lifeless wind. There they shrivel. Does that make sense to you? Does anyone understand this? It's about you. It's about how the sound of your voice gives me chills. It is the classic checkerboard pattern of black running into white before turning black again. Of all dichotimies in fact and fiction, of the entities which blur the lines between vision and blindness, of conjecture and of reality. These are the customs that we abide by. These are the rules by which society modulates us. I wilt in this beginning. The chaff splits off and when you look again you'll see that there's nothing left standing, not even my devotion to you. Then my gaze will seep through the underpinnings of the window frame and find the other you. Another chance, another person, come to me; in this state of fascination it's your move, even as you sleep at this very moment I await the morning that may not come. "
threemileisle
"We bore through your skin on a smug autumn night. Deep plastic handles adorn the drill, spinning so stilly that even light does not touch it. Every fiber tenses against the outrage, every tendon cracks against the slick sweat of your white t-shirt. A glint off in the corner where the shadows lay, taut. A trespass and a violation. Then we burst through the tissue thin layers to reach the jagged bones that you yourself burned away. Burn, not with acid nor fire, but with a base. A basic solution and a basic deception. Now what? You've drawn me in with the sugar sprinkled upon your lips and then the gyrations of your hips. Intrigue in a picture book that has provided the outline of black chalk but no color between the lines. There is no equlibrium. You fall and the Earth is the slightest flicker in our periphery. The stars are large bulbs as we continue descending into the mystery of the skies. The enigma of you, into the unexpected, into a place that I've walked past a hundred times before. What'll you do now? The heavens are shaped in a half-crescent; this crater is ours; it is the chain that binds me to you in a prison I've never been willing to forsake. Now, with walls sloped towards the edges of the moon for us to hang from, hand to foot, foot to hand. A dance if you will, of interlocking steps to map the terrain. A step back, hands tightly gripped, a step left in defiance of our embrace, a step forward and the dance goes on, without rhythm, without conclusion. Where is the consolation now? A ribbon to cling from my brow? A trophy at my feet? What good will that do me? Acclaim from the unrecognized whose every glance slides off me like hot wax that has been sitting with a flame too long? I want flesh.. living, breathing flesh with a heartbeat that mirrors my own. A thump in your chest and your thoughts flow through to me. A tick of the clock's third hand and my emotions are yours in instant recognition. A montage of suffering that I have stashed inside myself; my personal collage of unrealized yearnings and of every single prayer that my breath has ever given the stark, lifeless wind. There they shrivel. Does that make sense to you? Does anyone understand this? It's about you. It's about how the sound of your voice gives me chills. It is the classic checkerboard pattern of black running into white before turning black again. Of all dichotimies in fact and fiction, of the entities which blur the lines between vision and blindness, of conjecture and of reality. These are the customs that we abide by. These are the rules by which society modulates us. I wilt in this beginning. The chaff splits off and when you look again you'll see that there's nothing left standing, not even my devotion to you. Then my gaze will seep through the underpinnings of the window frame and find the other you. Another chance, another person, come to me; in this state of fascination it's your move, even as you sleep at this very moment I await the morning that may not come. "