Hello darling… Yes, you, darling.
Did you not see me out the window?
The decorating trees emerged, it was divine.
I felt your eyes on me and I whispered to myself:
“This room, it’s hooked with feathers. Feathers light and pink and inviting, because pink means more to me than meat.
And that’s ok.”
The air between us is thin; our ears, they carry so much tension.
And this thrill seeking body is hooked, hooked on sway, sways and churns. It churns in pink because it feels good.
This room hooks and sways with the ecstasy of promise’s jagged edges.
Slow flows make up its form.
Visceral their movement spawned need, or should I say, longing.
Softly, lush, their movement reaches.
They pause before they ask.
Writhing to and fro and for each other so that their mutual longing coalesce.
But maybe the more one has, the higher one’s tolerance for it.
And I'm hooked.
I’m hooked and pink and confused.
I’m inverted and churning because it feels good.
One foot planted and the other floating.
Holding these edges in place with a painful, shimmering, bitter, sexy glue.
I feel lustful and envious of you.
What is it with feathered trees that makes the window clearer?
