Don’t it sing? This magnificent haze of burning that brings you to him, as if the orange glow of untamed wildfire on a crooked and spoked horizon. What malignant attraction. The darkest corner of failure in your defenses, where you saw hope in the allure of those startling eyes, those inviting lips, that conflagration of passion licking at night as if a tangible aura. What a fraud. Didn’t you already know? It’s unfounded curiosity and a slip of judgement. It’s weakness. For he’s deep devil, reinging Hell on a forked tail of satisfaction with a tongue working infallible magic and hands dutifully granting blind glee, absent heart where yours overflows with the honest need of now. He’s demon, a conniving work of evil masked in comely, long-limbed form and smooth eloquence. Dexterous words and fine fingers seeking flesh and wet, and how your yearning trips you into falling, how the night screams to welcome his fiery eagerness as if he were desert rain and not more vacant heat. The failure of your judgement sickens in the early hours, the cloud of wine breaking and revealing the dark failure such sad wisdom, a thunderclap split by the blinding strike of reason. No lesson learned, his plying weeds in your garden, strangling the beauty of your blooming promise which reaches for warmth and light but lays smothered under his weight when he pushes the long length of lust inside you, filling you, emptying you. The melody of his breathing an uttered curse in the thick, humid night, it merges with the frail musings of morning wren as dawn fails, your naked limbs splayed and awaiting another bout with him as if he were addiction. The fix never fixing. The dream of a heart impossible in his nightmare.
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