Fireflies in the Glade
Tag, you’re it.
But what is it, then, that I have become?
I sit and listen to the humming drone of the
and imagine you naked on the bed.
Regally dressed I would be standing in a
at the door. The heat and humidity of the long
day makes you perspire,
your skin wet and sticky
so that when I run my fingers across your legs
they don’t run smooth along
your soft flesh as they should
but get stuck
held in the seductive ooze
you so coquettishly
But do not give me soft!
Just your sly smile, your bare breasts and a hunger
to dine on you.
To lick your tart nipples,
kiss your neck and taste the salt of your sweat mingle
with my tongue as you absently watch
the fan blades
Shake from me this idea of beauty, of art,
of good and evil. Tempt me with contorted
perceptions. With amorality. With cruelty.
There are halos circling our heads,
like fireflies in the glade, and stab our skulls
like rust colored daggers.
I don’t have the ability to make you hunger.
I claw and crawl into you
and find nothing but the hollow remains
laughing at its own twisted comedy.
Break it off with me!
My transformation is not yet complete.
From where I sit I see only the damned fan
orderly blowing the still air, the sweltering
glass of lime water,
the chaotic butterflies in bloom, the oranges piled
high in a cracked bowl on the counter.
I am it. And not it.
And through it, under it, and above it
Or do I?
I am like a rooster turned stone in the yard
crumbling slowly to dust over the years.
Perhaps it is idleness?
But whether idleness or perseverance
their toll is my waste.