But Dreams Are Always Short in Time
Dreaming on a pink soap-bubble.
But Dreams Are Always Short in Time
I stumbled on you in your window display.
I threw one of my magnetic arrows.
DM: “Hey!”
We met on your comfy futon, meat only, no salad, no starters.
Cross-legged, uncrossed, digitally encrypted, I deciphered your code.
I opened your book to the glowing white page at your center, to write, channeled, soft, and loud, with my HB red-mine pen, your name.
Your page was slowly leaking, drop by drop, releasing elastic, undulating tension, amber, sticky balm streaming thermic caress down,
electric touches on your pulsing event horizon.
Your eyes surrendered trembling wishes. I seized the bridle of your hair.
You gasped, gripped,
pressed, clung to me, begging to be taken.
My hand claimed your waist.
“You’re mine,” I whispered behind you like the Sahara wind: “Move.”
Unbridled, untamed,
feverish,
you danced in tremors, sweat and thrills.
Staccato,
you met my leash.
Legato,
riding my mare,
I whipped with thirst your tensed thighs.
Faster!
Supernova awaits!
Your gaze said:
I obey, Master!
Earth, soaked in sinful desires, pool of burning wicked cravings.
Bodies fused together,
Then: “Sorry!”
A gasp, before your blood-red hot pearl burst.
Wow!
A star quake!
Flows of uncontrollable spasms, clear waters, like a thousand-year storm breaking.
Your sweet name melted like strawberry ice cream on your lips, under my fingers.
Convulsions of wild moans in high definition, dreaming in 4K motion, drinking rosé.
Swimming in Chantilly cream, you still glance at your watch while drumming on the soft, pulsing, wet, pounded skin.
We play this futile teenager’s game, pretending a little too much, yet loving the coat of a soft touch.
Our eyes intertwined between day and night, surreal, drifting on the surface of the pink living soap bubble.
I stitched my heart to your heart to keep it with you, but dreams have their expiration timer too.
When the heart’s zipper opens again, popping its green “Idle” sign, searching for another Supernova…
Five minutes passed, or maybe five days, five seasons, or five seconds, just five streets away.
DM: “Hey!”
Turning the plaque of my heart once more.
It’s red.
Occupied.
Star-storm, unbridled,
Dreaming: On Air!