Big Dump

I do not wish to become a joke in one’s hands, a short parable of giving in to the temptation, and so I would like to express my passion curtly and quickly, in a string of sharp images – to live through a shorter version of all stages of my infatuation, even with the threat of stepping into a perpetual void after and becoming a very dry, reserved man.

Instead I find myself drifting languidly once my eyes are laid on him, feelings evaporating off my skin to float in the air, his moves in slow motion, almost, as I am gazing at him from under my eyelashes, mundane tasks and conversations, essays I read and music I listen to – filled with the ethereal presence of him, drifting in and out of me, to the point where I feel that I have become a part of the atmosphere surrounding him. I imagine our breaths mixing, and I entertain the thought of continuous matter, for knowing there is a slight chance that everything is screwed up and I am really an extension of him, and he is the extension of everything else, makes my heart flutter in a wicked ecstasy of possession.

I succumb to his charm as a mountain river crashes and gives way to a wider, slower current, lazing indolently in the scorching sun, oily, mellow, basking in its richness and flowing blindly to swallow up smaller rivers, or to fall again, or to lose itself in a greater outlet.