Breakfast in the Red Light District

My arms around you, your face buried in my chest, and I’m caressing your hair with my lips. That’s the scene in our heads. I can’t describe it. The events that have led us here are static, like the end of a video cassette. I can’t say what it is.

In a way, you compliment me. You’re like a fine wine that ages well. I dare not touch you; expose you to the world. I’d rather keep you to myself. Few people can appreciate you, and I would kill them all for your attention. I’m a victim of Stockholm syndrome. You have me gagged and bound, yet I beg you for more. My teachers told me I was bright, but you tell me otherwise. You do me wrong as I do you right. “I don’t want to jynx this”, I say, so you knock on my wood.

You arouse me. The blood rushes to my head. We are wrapped in the sheets, preserving this moment forever. An infinite happy ending. Your body is a manuscript. I ingest the letters and spit out your name, as you taste the morning and breathe in last night. Reliving every moment. You thank me, the words caressing my face. I stir, as I relive your existence in my head. Cheating on you with the image of you that I hold. You wake me up, though I am always awoken by you. I wake up full of your inspiration, so I skip the pill. It’s the crack of dawn. You pull me around your body and wrap your lips around my subconscious. This is the start of round seventy two.

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