Turning it
A library. I lean against the stacks of treasure, reading. He approaches so quietly, barely a rustle of his clothing, barely a tap of his shoes on the carpet, like a counterpoint melody in a sidereal time signature to the sound of my pages moving through the air, turning. He sees me motionless but for turning pages and the rare nod of my eyelashes. His demeanor is gentle, hardly ruffling my rich contemplation even as he draws near.
He lowers himself to his knees slowly, in time to the music, looks up and looks aside before the wild and deep turmoil is too much. The yearning cant of his shoulders asks that I want him, his now steady gaze upward to me asks me to make an ordered sense of what is going on inside of him. I give him no question, no uncertainty -- I grab hold of him and kiss him deeply, take him to the floor, sweeping over him with a sexual storm. His breathing steadily deepens and quickens, its volume and velocity building, reaching his limits as I force him to the edge of orgasm. He whimpers with it, wanting to ask if he can. I withhold, watch him struggle at the edge, safely lost in the intensity of my control, a certain peace and raw need impossibly married together. My own breathing is deep yet slow, and time stops:
I love him.
Beside us, the pages of my discarded book are ticking toward some favored passage.
And I love him like this.
But. Wait. The moment is overshadowed by the smell of books, of intellect, by thought, by philosophy of thought, and thought about spirit, passion, energy.
This is not love. And as if it were love, is this only an archetype? And if so, is it any the more hollow, any the more passionate?
There is a howling chaos trapped within our existence, hidden by a veil so simple it is easily parted. Beyond it we are more, so much more, and the sweet froth of our forgetfulness turns and sours the illusions of individuality, individual consciousness.
The question does not matter. This moment is beautiful, filled with everything.
He lowers himself to his knees slowly, in time to the music, looks up and looks aside before the wild and deep turmoil is too much. The yearning cant of his shoulders asks that I want him, his now steady gaze upward to me asks me to make an ordered sense of what is going on inside of him. I give him no question, no uncertainty -- I grab hold of him and kiss him deeply, take him to the floor, sweeping over him with a sexual storm. His breathing steadily deepens and quickens, its volume and velocity building, reaching his limits as I force him to the edge of orgasm. He whimpers with it, wanting to ask if he can. I withhold, watch him struggle at the edge, safely lost in the intensity of my control, a certain peace and raw need impossibly married together. My own breathing is deep yet slow, and time stops:
I love him.
Beside us, the pages of my discarded book are ticking toward some favored passage.
And I love him like this.
But. Wait. The moment is overshadowed by the smell of books, of intellect, by thought, by philosophy of thought, and thought about spirit, passion, energy.
This is not love. And as if it were love, is this only an archetype? And if so, is it any the more hollow, any the more passionate?
There is a howling chaos trapped within our existence, hidden by a veil so simple it is easily parted. Beyond it we are more, so much more, and the sweet froth of our forgetfulness turns and sours the illusions of individuality, individual consciousness.
The question does not matter. This moment is beautiful, filled with everything.