He is Contradiction and Confusion.

The body winds,

Slides,

Warm skin against a peasants’ blanket.

The stretch,

The splay of long fingers beckon

And I,

A man less than,

Am seduced.

He is Imperfection and Chaos.

The body extends,

Spreads.

Liquid grace stained with feline elegance.

The press,

The stroke of thigh demands

And I,

A man less than,

Am conquered.

I lie to myself,

Lost somewhere between translation,

And comprehension.

The galloping pulse against my lips is

Acceptance, not Contradiction.

The draw of blunt nails along my spine is

Clarity, not Confusion.

The cling of his possessive embrace is

Flawlessness, not Imperfection.

The taste of his mouth pressed to mine is

Harmony, not Chaos. I lie to myself,

Ignoring the reality that echoes

And reverberates.

He is Rapture and Loathing.

The body sighs,

Whispers,

Spilling sweetly across my throat.

The curl,

The wrap of arm offers solace

And I,

A man less than,

Am broken.

- From Cleo to Desmond. -