Monsieur, who am I in your desire? I laugh, no, you don't have to answer. Who you are in my desire is perhaps what I should consider. Yet don't we imagine ourselves through our fantasy of what the other sees in us?
Can I see myself as you would see me?
The gaze is whose gaze? And what is desire, Monsieur?
Desire is more than a fantasy; it is a will towards, a propulsion. Desire materializes us.
Eros is flowing differently now, the topography's changed, or the flow of the meridians is irrigating me differently.
Desire materializes us only to
dematerialize us.
It's a paradox, mon amor.
I incarnate deeply into my errogenous body
as I disperse under your touch, turn molten.
Until we are nothing
but pulsing
filaments
lit by each other's passion.
But I imagine this, Monsieur. In the space of desire where my fantasies enact.
Sheath of feeling. Words groping to touch air.
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