Perhaps we both belong in a book drafted by an author named Marquis de Sade. You are the passive sadist because without doing anything, you become the object of my masochistic desire, my daily dose of affliction. The author’s pen speaks not of sexual carnage, physical gore and torture but of something beyond the peasant axons and dendrites residing in the cellular hamlets of my terraqueous body can endure as Marquis makes use of my visual acuity to measure the geometry of your anatomy, studying every curve, memorizing each line. And he signs every page of the book with his whore’s come. “Ah, this is lust at first sight,” the leaves mumble as you turn the sulfuric shower on and bathe with me on the sunshine of the eternal mindless spot. “This is my idea of an orgasmic memory of rain,” your larynx generated the words that ostensibly stimulated my lips, my mouth, my throat athirst, dry as Sahara, to swallow my spittle which put the needle against the phonograph attached to a monitor playing the pornographic images of how your skin would meet my flesh and how your head would perfectly fit upon laying it on my shoulder. But then as the sputum reached my gut, I opened my eyes and saw you walking across the street, hailing a cab, and I tried to hail for a little gab, but you were already too far. I couldn’t move my feet as though they were cemented to the ground. Instead, I shot a beam coming from my retina to follow your direction until your image was just a figure, a part of a painting’s membrane laid against the sweet color of the dying day accompanied by a melody of my malady as I moved listlessly towards the building and into the lobby. I began to float even before I stepped on the elevator’s floor. With all the men’s leather shoes and women’s stilettos, I wonder how did I ever wind up working in this place, surrounded by different indifferent kind of unkind people but you... even though you’re just a figment of De Sade’s imagination.
xdelax-circa09
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