(no subject)
It's 10 pm and I can hear the businessman. I can hear the beads of sweat crawling between his knuckles, see his fingers desperately wrapped around his briefcase as he sits alone in his office-fit-for-a-king. Clutching his portfolio. His bank book. His existence summed up in numbers. The morning newscaster smirked at me today when he said the word "recession." He knows that I'm surviving in the shadow of the business man's high-priced high rise palace, but I’m not ashamed or envious. I embrace this feral landscape as if it were a part of me, and so the rumble of the concrete jungle lulls me to sleep at night. The business man is accustom to silence, but any day now he'll see. He'll see that economic growth is an apocalypse, and the seedier side of this city is poetic in its post-apocalyptic beauty.
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“Sabaku.” He spoke to me while drawing invisible pictures with his fingertip on the small of my back. “You weren’t meant to have a normal life like the rest of us.” I closed my eyes and tried to guess the figures he was forming on my skin. “You were meant to be an entirely different being. An aimless inspiration, a wandering prophet, a philosophical gizmo with no practical application other than enlightenment.” He touched the back of my earlobe with his lips and I lost my breath. “Sabaku... you were meant to be a muse.”
Without answering, I turned my head towards the window. It was 2am and I could still hear the clockwork sounds of the streets below. My sheer curtains glowed with a hazy yellow hue as the city emanated life just on the other side of them.
“Can we go for a walk?” I asked him, my gaze still fixed on the window. A bright light flashed through the room as a car passed on the street. I was jealous.
“Why?” he asked, turning me onto my back. He squeezed the handles of my waist gently and kissed my stomach. “It’s 2am. Everyone’s asleep.”
“That’s not true. They’re more awake than we are.”
He didn’t reply. He simply rested his head on my hips.
“I don’t think I was meant to be a muse,” I told him.
He ignored this comment as his hands slid from my waist to my calves. He began writing imaginary letters on the soft skin behind my knees.
“But instead... I... I think I was meant to live in a muse.”
I knew he was listening but his actions spoke otherwise. He kissed the inside of my thigh while still forming words with his fingertips. I..... W.... A.... N.... T.... I tried to make out the letters through the overwhelming sensations, but the sounds outside were still calling me.
“Really, dear,” I sighed as his tongue crept to the inner crevice of my upper thigh. “You have it all wrong. I’m nothing without this city. It owns me.”
And at these words he took the opportunity to attack-- a gorgeously violent attack by his lips, his tongue, his teeth, his breath, his hands-- his entire, starving being. I let out a small cry as he pushed in to me. Another light flashed from the window and for an instant I caught a glimpse of his eyes, enraptured and hungry, holding in them his muse. “Just let me have you for one more moment,” he whispered into my neck as I clutched the bed sheets tight enough to dig into the fabric with my nails and through to my skin. “Just one more moment and then I’ll let you escape to your streets.”
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“Sabaku.” He spoke to me while drawing invisible pictures with his fingertip on the small of my back. “You weren’t meant to have a normal life like the rest of us.” I closed my eyes and tried to guess the figures he was forming on my skin. “You were meant to be an entirely different being. An aimless inspiration, a wandering prophet, a philosophical gizmo with no practical application other than enlightenment.” He touched the back of my earlobe with his lips and I lost my breath. “Sabaku... you were meant to be a muse.”
Without answering, I turned my head towards the window. It was 2am and I could still hear the clockwork sounds of the streets below. My sheer curtains glowed with a hazy yellow hue as the city emanated life just on the other side of them.
“Can we go for a walk?” I asked him, my gaze still fixed on the window. A bright light flashed through the room as a car passed on the street. I was jealous.
“Why?” he asked, turning me onto my back. He squeezed the handles of my waist gently and kissed my stomach. “It’s 2am. Everyone’s asleep.”
“That’s not true. They’re more awake than we are.”
He didn’t reply. He simply rested his head on my hips.
“I don’t think I was meant to be a muse,” I told him.
He ignored this comment as his hands slid from my waist to my calves. He began writing imaginary letters on the soft skin behind my knees.
“But instead... I... I think I was meant to live in a muse.”
I knew he was listening but his actions spoke otherwise. He kissed the inside of my thigh while still forming words with his fingertips. I..... W.... A.... N.... T.... I tried to make out the letters through the overwhelming sensations, but the sounds outside were still calling me.
“Really, dear,” I sighed as his tongue crept to the inner crevice of my upper thigh. “You have it all wrong. I’m nothing without this city. It owns me.”
And at these words he took the opportunity to attack-- a gorgeously violent attack by his lips, his tongue, his teeth, his breath, his hands-- his entire, starving being. I let out a small cry as he pushed in to me. Another light flashed from the window and for an instant I caught a glimpse of his eyes, enraptured and hungry, holding in them his muse. “Just let me have you for one more moment,” he whispered into my neck as I clutched the bed sheets tight enough to dig into the fabric with my nails and through to my skin. “Just one more moment and then I’ll let you escape to your streets.”