Secret Admirer
You have been careless with the box I gifted you. It was crafted into a piece of art for a reason. A pearl clutching bar pours decadently into mahogany extensions of sanded wood. That melted dessert of a grip is enough to keep the hypnosis of your container in place. Interlacing ovals of vantablack and blood red spin your mind as they was intended to do. They spiral in a way that escapes the haplessness of x, y coordinates. When you look at them, you are not here. It is a geometry you can touch. The soft felt breathes if you caress is slowly enough. Like a slumbering pet curled at the foot of a bed, your hand ought to gently trace the body like a dragging feather. Avoid the violence squeezing, raking, or any such investigatory clumsiness. The box is asleep and is pulling you into a similar dream. What is a mailing address or vestibule? Divest yourself of these anchors. Yet my correspondence has found you before the blunder. Time is with me in that a way that clocks misunderstand. Before you chose against prudent custody, the signal of your mistake ripped through temporality like a bullet. You dropped it, didn't you? My entry wound does not lie. Now my kisses have are scattered like spectral mice. They will find lodging beneath your bathroom tiles, under immovable kitchen fixtures, and chew holes in your mattress to make a den. Nothing can exterminate my dirty love. All of your waking hours will be infused with an espionage of desire that have expired past decency. There is an itch that follows the pestilence of eros. Your skin will raise in hives. Everything about that box was designed in harmony with concealment. Somethings exist simply to avoided. They are the boarders of our delightsome fortune. Your blessings are herded by illicit passions that must not leak into the spaces they frame. When this happens, seductive woes disassemble your routine with a please and thank you. Hedonic demolition goes brick by brick. There is no rush. Now, the playthings you entertain as romantic partners must be filtered through the terror of my infestation. My kisses are covetous. They will intercept all stores of honest love built up by your betrothed. Push your face to his, and a mouse is there about your chin and lower lip. Should he try to go into you as in times previous to the spill, a mouse scurrying across your matrix will prevent him. There are valentines that belong on the night stand. Others make there way into the recycling. Then there is the kind that is meant as tinder for fireplaces. All tokens of love are not equal.