Candle wax drips down the sconce onto the bedside table while you light my cigarette and pour my drink which I do not touch until you feign fascination at simple anecdotes that I find trivial enough to share with you. You smile and move closer holding the spoon gently to my lips and in your impossibly delectable rhythm whisper that my hair and fair skin , so near , whips your mind into arousal and that my swollen lips are a crimson darkness that devours you. Soon my subconscious begins to tenderly vibrate for you. Seduced by the lure of Bolero I feel so soft inside and after a few more sips I hallucinate a frightened fox pursued by relentless boots of hunters pounding the snowy banks that rise above our grotto at the foot of the alps where we venture hedonism. I cry out and you press my face into your chest to spare me the moonless massacre spilling down the mountainside into the foothills. I console myself, knowing that like all dreams this one will end. It is only a matter of when.
art by L’ Rend Fou