Yesterday, I turned off the lights before I went to bed and today I awoke without the crimson traces your beard had left on my neck. There is a small music box covered in a saffron and chartreuse collage next to my pillow, but it does not play music; it plays the recording of your voice repeating “home” to the beat of an engorged native drum. How thoughtful of you to encourage my hands to recreate the feeling of your hands on my skin with anamorphic lust as the heavy breathing of your voice makes me rise and rise.
Tonight’s esoteric conversation about current world events and religions must come to an end soon. I want you on me and in me when we stop talking. We will use sex to feel colours and swallow textures until our lives become exquisite surreal dramas to watch. This story must come to an end soon because we are both in the warmest parts of our bodies and must hold on as we listen to sights and inhale music.