Also for TW
There is a Want
Words
read
at the tip of my tongue
feeding
The Perfect. Desire
Consumes me. Tho I must extinguish
This fantasy dream machine
Want won't abide extinction.
Want (don't want)
cannot extinguish.
This tongue speaks,
reads perfection in desire.
Does it desire
extinction?
Perfection?
Want
To read
this tongue
to speak, to extinguish...
I beg you, extinguish
this desire
to speak
your tongue
thrills to extinction.
Want
Perfect.
Words.
The Perfect.
Please extinguish
This Want.
This desire.
Extinction:
your
tongue. Perfect
Extinction
Extinguish
Desire
Want
This tongue to extinguish
The Perfect Desire
to speak,
to read these words on my tongue.
Why did I write this? In part, because you're so breathtakingly beautiful that it makes my soul ache. And in part, or perhaps this is simply an extension of the first part, because I have this fantasy though I know your beauty destroys me. No matter how much I desire it, your virtual presence oppresses me. Your imagined presence presses me into this page where I can only exist as an abstraction, words on a page with no context to frame this sense of recognition. We do not know each other. Yet, I still have this fantasy of you and I sitting on a park bench in a properly manicured English garden. You know the kind. You are perfect and dapper in dark blue, yes, it must be dark blue, a dark blue three-piece suit, with pinstripes so thin they might as well be invisible, oh god, there's even a fob watch. You're reading the paper and exuding proper English demeanor. I'm wearing cowboy boots and a striped skirt, my legs dangle across yours as I lounge, with proper American demeanor, against the armrest, and play with an iPad. Yes, TW, this is my fantasy. But, hush now, it's a secret.
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