Beautiful Memory

inside a room with opened door
inside a room with opened door

You bite me, you wound me, bruise me. Intentionally. I construe this as love. But that's my issue, not yours.

I stand tall in the high grasses and you, large beast that you are, camouflaged on a branch, you see me. You are meant to.

I lope and predictably you pursue. Uncoiling, bounding from your vantage point. I easily clear rivulets, I cut sharp turns but you are right on my flank. We gallop, we stir up cloudy flurries of murk, disturbing the peace of other animals. You overtake me, which I allow, I con myself. With wit and sensuality you strike my jugular with scimitar claws and I give in, slowly gently and falsely. It's a game, we both laugh. Love struck if you like.

We fixate, staring and saying nothing. Fruitlessly hoping our sentiments are tacitly conveyed. I love you. Can't you feel it? I don't want to say it.

For one perfect tiny terrarium instant life was gorgeously intense. We were semiprecious stones gathering no moss. More than mere gaseous thought, while amorphous these interactions are not nothing. And so we consume a batch, we indulge, we overload. We tremble from that feeling of safety, its very chill overheated by our selective beautiful memories. White weightless bones. Interpret as you wish. Blink and love what was. That's all you get. Ask no questions.

Strike me, scar me, drink my blood. I won't care. I'll make more. Every infliction you deliver I take as a gift, a sample of the variants of tastes. I'll taste your renditions, your stories, I'll taste your gloating, I'll taste your shame. And I'll sip it down through the tip of my ostrich quill.

You'll bite, and then I'll write. You'll go through your motions, your modus operandi. And I'll suck it up, like the proud vampire I am. Your blood-letting is my bitch. The war endures but this battle is mine. Thanks love!