sequestered

I don’t know what I want from you. We speak love in code unwilling to come out of the dark for fear we might lose our  primal  world, become separated in some distant dimension.   You are the epitome of elegance and I am your sparkling bait, pretending to be fascinated by whatever it is you choose to share with me and it is not long before my  unmoored  fixation begins to tenderly  vibrate for you.
On the patio you swallow the heavy scented night,  your nude body laid back in the deep shadows.  In the next room I place my glass of vodka on the window sill alongside the others varying in levels of empty.  I can’t write in the room we make love in. I must slip away from that cloistered space,  escape my obsession and rituals.  Rites are death to creativity.   I sip slowly, rub my cigarette out in the rind of an orange,  scribble the same wounds that even I grow tired of.

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