I ask if you feel violated by all the photographs, if it exhausts you to be looked at by millions. Embossed eternally. Mass psychic attack. I imagine all the people that leak and bleed and ooze into you without asking permission.
I am sitting on your green velvet couch and you have a pen in your mouth and one of your eyes is squinting which is what you do,when you are straining to reach a thought while you write. I have a book in my hand, legs crossed, heals brushing the carpet. Staring at you with a wide eyed look of mischief and interest and you stare right back. We speak in an invisible, soundless language sometimes. It’s like tuning into an etheric current of something built just for us. Sometimes we sit for hours in silence, studying each other's movements. You say I move like I have an audience. Capable of intense tenderness and instant flashes of vengeance. You unravel all of my secrets with a carnal indulgence. You are impossible to shock.
It is hard to be caught in this place, oscillating between fragile and dangerous. You taste the bad and good in me, and yet you want them both. I say that I will only write about him if I am writing away from him, and into you. I want you to suck the poison he left inside of me out, as if it were a lethal snake bite. Quickly, urgently. An angel with a monstrous appetite. This is what happens with fire, it can’t stay still. It eats and consumes itself.