Infatuation Long Forgotten

The lungs of a physical manifestation of the body of a generational progressed Eve, who inhaled the blood of the lamb, and exhaled the toxic air of communion. Walking on cumulus clouds that outlined the epitome of a livelihood that invisibly shone a fallen saint who has been bewitched by the serpent's tongue bathed in the poison of temptation. An additional inbreath of the forbidden juice of the fruit, and once more an expiration of the swarming polluted venom from her blackened lips. Dancing with the imperceptible shadows of the celebration that carols and choruses as the shadows silhouettes twirled and trips the light fantastic beside her. As she hit a daunting pirouette, the heavens opened up and the illuminating light touched another’s forehead. That unbeknown figure unaccompanied by epithet or honorific evolved in her individualized spherical planet, where it didn’t include herself. 

For the angels rendered a saccharine melody, and their fingertips strummed the golden harps. The one who has fallen, has laid her irises on another gem who was celebrated by the heavenly father himself. Encapsulated by the substance consumed, her eyelets still managed to drink in her features, as infatuation was an earthly comfort, and not in a million light-years, will that stranger's face ever stare dead into an archangel's aperture. Despite her preconceived notions about the stranger, her eyes imbibed her melanin complexion as it made love to the sun, and her midnight black tresses ringletted into miniature divine curls. Her bosoms were curved so beautifully for the man-made her in his image, a walking goddess, but removing her eyes quickly as to continue to concede and yield to her desires, wouldn’t on any occasion quench her insatiable hunger. 

A shadow befell the watcher, as the disillusionment of the ability to obtain intimacy and the experience of the thread as a figurative serpent that wraps around each heart as its prey. The predator of love itself continues to tighten and suffocate as steadily the hearts grapple for oxygen. As the motivation to untangle the knots that enraptured each laboring breath, in one’s own good time perishes under a pressure of the paucity of devotion. Her spherical world revolved mainly in a momentary poisonous cathartic parade to the summit, to avalanche downwards towards the rebuking of refusing the devil’s temptation repeatedly. For the charming confection was veneer with the true appearance of toxicant euphoria. The adornment that was ever reciprocated was from the forceful objectifying hands of the shadow of death. It was only the forgiveness of a higher power that revived her, as she only gave credence to the idea that Judas deserved to serenade with the saved, rejoicing in the land of the living, and she was meant to become a forgotten memory. These emotions and thoughts weren’t foreign, and the cynical recollections of nostalgic inner-personal commitment that indeed the entirety of her livelihood was an after-school special. Not for a moment, were humans created without complete submission to the idea of relinquishment. Looking at that stranger, it indeed allowed her to gingerly lift the tread, and to commence her attempt to pour out the leftovers of her love.  

Walking around aimlessly waiting for the cathartic elevation to descend, my vessel found its way back to its humble abode. The idea of home is where the heart is, is an ever pumping, and ever germinating consolation that creates a feeling of falsified passion within oneself. The love that the beating organ that resides in her chest has for her dwelling place is the idea of loving contempt. It is the atypical agonizing throbbing in every synapse in her glass-half-empty psyche, that yearns to not have her skin crawl at the idea of loving where she resides. Floating off the ground, and landing on the cheap cushion of the bed, her deep brown corneas ogelled the ceiling and the arousal of acknowledging a variant threshold that transcends the philosophical thoughts of actual human connection which couldn’t possibly be achieved by a girl who can’t survive without her bloodstream setting ablaze. The bargain-basement serotonin, in correlation with meretricious dopamine, voided, and as the unerring mental capacity of a chronic melancholic fiend for anything more than the pursuit of eudaimonia was ultimately comprehensible. 

Her corneas enlarged, and the swift zephyr of realization swelled the forefronts of her cerebrum, that her embryonic endearment wasn’t as peculiar as the organ in the chamber of her soma. They were them, and they were they, and they embraced, and muttered intimate lyricisms into the interior of their eardrums, and whispered lovely appellations that breathed an internal resurrection of vitality into both women. Their vulvas connected physically and spiritually, and quietly moaned the undulations of pleasure that permeated the room with not a thing short of the fervor intensity of the zeal for the burning of both hearts to collide as one palpitating being. Alas, the daytime hadn’t concluded, as she had to seek the temperate tepid hands of her forgotten lover. 

Twitching with the impulsivity of a moment not pursuing an upsloping of delectation, her inner-framework rejected the maneuvering of a body extracted of its stimulant. She progressed briskly in the pursuit of a falsified jovial conclusion to her existence, which was to replenish the devoid of love. Coincidently back at the congruent locale, she saw her former lover, and with a jolt sprinted to her and without a heart's falter, opened her mouth. Out of her mouth was a symphony of cacophonous clamor that resounded from the violins prepping their strings to the drums exercising the noise of percussion, to the flutes whistling to the tunes of the orbit of a flurry of air. Her fingertips elaborated her articulate stories in the nonexistent chalkboard suspended in the imaginary perception. The tears that loomed her eye sockets threatened to spill over, as sorrowfully, the orchestra clashed and the sweet music never strummed, and the sonnet became unfinished. She could see in her former lovers' eyes that her face was incomprehensible. It was apparent that the woman standing in front of her didn’t remember the taste of her lips, or the stroking of her hair, or their bodies combining to the music of ardor. In her loved face, were the lips sagging in failed recollection, and her eyes became wide in instant bewilderment of accusations. She was loved by her, and she loved by her, but the love was only one-sided, as the thread fell to the ground and vanished because it never existed in the first place. 

Spiraling into a whirlpool of eternal damnation, the body physically born with the emotions of vacancy. Not anymore was her body filled with the adrenaline of love powered passion, but ever so strongly were the urges to wash away the shame and embarrassment with the multitudes of venoms that the antichrist rested in her hands. She willingly welcomed the same emotions of her bloodstream burning to the brinks of pure nothingness. She felt the rollercoaster of a doubt of love existing, to a lack of self-love, to the lack of love where she resides, to a remembrance of love, to feel the adrenaline of love, to ultimately feeling shame and embarrassment because of that wretched love. The pointless adulations of the premonition that love can abolish the ones in bondage. Those in the manacles of a standstill, while the creations of life frolic in the meadows of a perceived sense of given and reciprocated adoration. It is indeed the ones who crave those candied sensations, who will frolic in the lands of denudes, never to feel the sensations of the warm feelings of the heart on their bare naked skin.