Lust

Long long back, I dated you writer-san. Date might be a strong word, whatever. And you wrote me this:

She lets me sleep more than sleep would have me

She lets me decide when she can’t have me

Her left brain, on the mirror, is like my right

I know, sometimes, what she wants.

But that knowledge, I shall not even whisper in her ears

And when we’d like to meet, we call it ‘catch up’

When we’d like to talk, we term it ’hang out’

And when the sun droops below the line,

That’s when our plans arise far out in the sky

What she wouldn’t know

Is the story of her eyes

Spread broad wide, but not for the world to see

One must have a good pair of eyes

To plunge into her pair of eyes

For otherwise, it’s sheer blindness

And all understanding – a blind spot

She doesn’t know she looks naked

When she covers herself up

Blinking once every two heartbeats

Yet she festoons her eyes with black lines

Like coal dragged over infinite loops

The smudges at the corner of her eyes

Is an index of both pleasure and pain

She lets her hair fall all over the book

As she flips its pages with her lips pressed

Those facades won’t help anymore dear

For there lies a way through every façade

For they wouldn’t be called ‘façade’ otherwise

Look behind you

And you will wish to flip things around

Such that the real comes out and positions itself

In place of the façade

And you will see

How short-lived the façade is

A hand-length deep inside you.

~

Did you hate me? Idk. I don't think you liked me very much though. You did like fucking me, that bit I know. And yet the biggest hard on you ever had, was for yourself. 

~

Funny. Very few times in my life I gave in to just pure lust. Something about being on the edge of the universe and dropping into the abyss was equal parts exciting and scary and enticing. It always made me wonder whether I sink or swim, if that makes sense. And yet I always knew it wasn't you. Your fakeness turned me off. Try as you might, you couldn't hide that from me, could you? Because you always needed an illusion, a delusion.People tend to undersestimate how much I know them, I never understood why.

I've always wondered why the truth scares people off so much, can you really not face your real selves? Always craving validation and the reassurance of other people's acceptance, wanting the mirror to show you an ideal. Pathetic. 

For once I'd like to meet my match, one that can play off of my instincts like a sine wave turned erratic. I like those magnetic pulls, ones that beg you to resolve the tension. I hardly ever feel them but when I do, I find them so hard to resist. Maybe it's just as well. 

My dear elusive lover, cheers to the day we do meet. And promise me that when we do... you'll look me in the eye, and see every tiny lil thing you make me feel.