skonen_blades

I feel like I’m speaking music when I’m speaking to you. I feel like the combination of looking directly into your eyes, speaking plainly, seeing you get the subtext, and begging you with my pheromones to lean closer and kiss me is like playing chords on a grand piano.
Most conversations I have are one-note simple tunes with no depth or genius.
Some are melodies that are pleasing to listen to, easily played with one hand. Light and airy, fun to play. The catchy ones are repeated. They get in your head. Weather’s a popular theme. They’re like commercial jingles.
Talking to you, though.
These conversations I have with you are so rich that I walk away feeling like I’ve just had a meal. It’s an outwardly normal conversation that appears to be a fairly pleasant and normal exchange to witness but is a glorious timeless gut wrenching thrill ride to be a part of. And it’s mutual. We drown in each other.
We walk away exhausted, knowing that if just talking is this amazing, the sex is going to be ridiculous.

I pull at your sweater. My belt buckle puts a dent in the wall when you throw my pants away from us. You hotly breathe syllables into my ear that are not quite words. We scramble out of our clothes and clasp each other on the bare cold floor. We heat it up. I feel what it is to attack someone in a loving way. There is an urgency in this clutching scratching defiance of the inevitable. The jut of the hard parts, the swell of the soft parts. The two of us making one biological machine. The mindlessness of our actions having but one purpose. The emptiness of our minds swimming in a tantric nirvana.

The neighbours bang on their walls. The upstairs neighbours bang on their floor. The downstairs neighbours bang on their ceiling.

We’re screaming now. Our eyes are glowing orange. The place catches fire.

I feel lucky to know you.
I feel lucky to know you.
I feel lucky to know you.






electronic