an intimate moment with my muse

when my muse leads my fingers
through the terrains of his skin
lands he only touched
in the flood of his daily rebirth
or that he caressed
in the heat of his nightly death
I fill it with the people
that populate the forests of his dreams
thriving, striving
in the tapestry of civilization
of wars, famines, deaths
of love, marriages, deaths
the memory of my lips in his body
the intertwining turmoil of earth upon earth
fill me with the seeds
that bless the void with meaning
in our every solemn night
of typing

I feel exhausted, disgusted after a night and a half-day of talking about crushes. How do you even deal with the urge of rough human contact? Jerk off about it? Talk about it? Hitch a one night stand about it? None of which seems to work. And no, I am not in the mood to make love with a stranger. I wanted to do it with someone I know for a change. Someone I always see, someone I sometimes talk to. No strings attached.

Well, it was a waste of time and effort. Until I find someone I know to do it at his place, the best outlet I have right now  perhaps is erotic writing. Or quasi-erotic writing. Whatever works, if it ever works.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s