“Did you like my new story?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “It was good. I enjoyed reading it.”
“But did you love my new story?”
“Yes, I loved it. As I love you.”
* * *
But that’s not good enough.
I want you to twist the pages of my manuscript into a tight cylinder,
drool over it until it’s dripping wet,
then spread your legs and fuck yourself with it.
For starters.
The magical spell once woven promised not to fail.
My eyes lit up like hundred-watt bulbs,
floodlights at the sound of your footstep.
You were the wind, and I was full sail.
Months passed, smiles waned;
spring fragrance fades so fast.
Once upon a time I asked you to take my breath away.
Now I want it back.
My recollection of other women pales before you,
rising in layers of wispy steam; paperthin moments
slip suddenly through my fingers to disperse
in the cool autumn mist, above which you are the sun.
In early winter, a lone Japanese maple
stands naked & shivering in the cold
on the lawn outside the window,
the last of her berries
slowly succumbing to frost.
There was a time, once,
when everything in the world was fresh & alive—
vibrant greens and deep blues
in thick brushstrokes across the landscape of my horizon,
a spring in the step of every maiden fair crossing my path.
Ah, but you were my summer,
and I am bound to your body
by strong sinews of rich memory,
horseflesh moments to feed
my starving spirit eternally.
Christian resides in Memphis, Tennessee and absolutely loves it there. Did you know that there is more deciduous forest growth within the city limits of Memphis than in any other comparably sized American city? And Christian loves trees... He also loves yoga, reiki, tantric massage, the sweat lodge ceremony on Sundays, Chinese, teenage girls and the films of Woody Allen.