Foxtails

I think that I enjoy the way that women taste more than the way they sound, unless I am allowed to hear the sounds they make while partaking in my favorite things. Feeling the fingernails of creators scrape at my skin or flow through strands of hair upon my head. The dew that sits upon lips to be sipped. The warmth of being headfirst between thighs once more, as if rebirth were so simple. I find the calm of it to be enveloping, indelibly identical to almost overdosing, laid out on the floor and staring up. Dazed and dozing and stained like glass by marks they make while scratching at the surface. I serve this simple purpose all too often, a servant fervent in his due diligence. Truth be told, I imagine the unfolding of petals and the bloom that happens in the corner of a room, too often. A space dimly lit by moon or even sun if only ever in eternal afternoon, doomed and blessed to repeat the same process. I think the time spent not in bed is time mismanaged. I think supple limbs not stretching this way or that are limbs to be removed, necks not bitten into next to be consumed. I think there is a gentleness that so often begets me and in its place, there, contorting with ghouls is who I really am. A thing that dines on flesh and time together, eating every minute up like starving dogs that trampled owner and offspring. It is first nature to divulge at the earliest convenience that I have no wits about me, that there is only passion and a sense of sin itself that claws its way up my throat and spills out from my tongue. My fingers crave the crevices and my eyes the sight of curves and fat and muscle underneath the skin. My lips saunter from freckle to mole to sun-kissed spot, from foot to forehead in compulsion, convulsing if not secretly controlled. I myself am something sinister and simple and crafted for service and pressure and plunging into depths. With hands that grip and grasp. With ears that hear the songs they sing. With eyes that soak up scenery and lips that plead with me to place them where they wish to be. A spirit like a hound let loose to sift its body through the weeds and foxtails, permanent in its search for prey. Perhaps I am no different from the beast except that my soul craves consent and repents when set in front of those that make life possible. Mayhap I am created in the image of reprieve. A thing meant to be used and then discarded when the day has been conceived.