Absinthe

Molten wax streams down the copper sconce onto the night stand as  you light my cigarette and  proceed to pour  your   unholy green trinity of wormwood, fennel, and anise into a fine crystal goblet.   Holding the spoon gently to my lips I impudently turn away.  I do not touch your concoction until you feign fascination with the mundane anecdote I consider trivial enough to share.   Several sips later we lean back casually into your brocade cushions and in a somewhat dreamier state you attempt to distract me  with  details of your recent dalliance with a french contemporary artist until I  dismiss it with an apathetic yawn.  The embodiment of elegance you  smile and arch your brow, once again  hold the spoon gently to my lips and in your impossibly delectable rhythm whisper that my hair and fair skin so near stirs your mind into  arousal and my supple lips are a  crimson darkness that consumes you.  Sinking  deep into your far off voice   my subconscious begins to  vibrate for you.   Seduced by the lure of  Ravel’s waltz   I feel so soft inside and after a few more  sips I  hallucinate a frightened hare pursued by  relentless hunters pounding the snowy banks  that  rise above our grotto at the foot of the alps where we sink into hedonism.   To spare me the moonless massacre spilling down the mountainside you press me close to your chest and cover my eyes   with  tender kisses.    Having been saved from what now evades us we succumb  to a deep and somber slumber.

 

                      art by L’ Rend  Fou