Lunacy

Our summer was spent along a sandy beach covered in shells and twigs. We could sit each day and watch the world go by as we were mummified by our daily gin and tonic diet. We were reputable but repulsive, using words and ideas we couldn’t even comprehend. The standard of lust had defined us, tormented us, and brought us to our knees to finally force us to gaze at our own reflection.

The horror struck our shaky frames with instant disbelief. Our pale skin lit up with the morning light. Our faces glared, scratched and fragile with sunken eyes protruding beneath our brows. Where was our god to save us from this wicked sand, to keep us as sheep from falling down the crevasse? It was a stuttered prayer, scaling my dry tongue to fruition into the fractured air. My part here is done; I am left here with our sweaty palms clasped in each other’s hands like some gross obsession. I can only breath the words of desire before they have faded into such mutilated distaste that I must fall to my knees and wretch.

I am the lovers’ guide, hand picked by a poet practitioner. Always, this world is held in such high regard as slow-motion theater. I awake to be greeted by an aspiring morning sun, peering in through the cracks of my four-panel window. I could cry out with glee, here I am, here I am. But the words are but shadows to an omnipresent dream. And in this illusion I am caught choking on my own emotion. Where does it come to satisfy, to elaborate on my utter callousness? And when the depraved lunatic that is I escapes reason, we must march once again to that sandy shore. There our fingertips will collect in sensual elation, and again I may utter words of affection.