Of course, it is wrong to feel the way I did during those late-night
rendezvous via text messages, or when I struggled behind her as if on a leach,
a horny dog still attracted long after she came to despise my attraction.
They claim the eyes are windows to the soul, when in fact
each aspect of her are, this gateway to her inner being I can only reach when I
lose control and admire her more superficial aspects, the curve of her breasts,
the tightness of her jeans, her painted lips I ache to kiss, she being the
forbidden fruit that dangles before me, so filled with nectar I might drown if
I drink.
All that I’m not supposed to think, not supposed to notice
even when she sits across the table from me. This is no Adam and Eve story,
more one-sided than that. She does not hand me the fruit to eat, though I would
if she did. Instead, she gives it to others as I cringe, already exiled from
Eden, destined to never return, and must sit stiffly, pretending I do not see
what I see, feel what I feel, want what I want, hell being the absence of god,
and in her case, the absence of her, the forbidden fruit dangling always just
beyond reach.
No comments:
Post a Comment