Longing of Skins

The pleasure is momentary, the memory is eternal, in between there is the external, eternal, perhaps, suffering of waiting, always waiting, for more pleasure. The instant of love is an exotic occasion, a dance with feathers and leather, a numbness of skin that extends in a slither, that wraps itself in a pulsating fat, that is creamy and sweaty and squeamish and gasping and tantalizing and macabre, but it is, no matter what, no matter how, not extended beyond what is necessary.

One longs for its eternity, but never gets it.

And one must surrender themselves to that fact, that I will have sex, that I had had it, that I am making love, and then, I will not be making it any longer.

The process of paradise is suffocating, for one has to perpetually build oneself towards it, Brick by brick, step by step, tongue by tongue, a second passes, and then another, and at some point in the temporal junction, it occurs. But not through the entire line, and through the entire death, they are but small amounts of eclipses tormenting a life that only desires one thing, sex awake, sex in sleep, sex into, within, between, after, before, across, through, and around.

But there is no place where that may happen and no mind mad enough to try it. How could someone love themselves so much to put themselves through so much pleasure, first for oneself, the most important being in love, and then the person being loved, the second most important?

One memorizes then, the best aspects of the occasion, the ones that are filled with passion and the ones that are more disgusting. The ones that liberate a pondering brain and the ones that liberate a heart so filled with excess that it spills things in words, a desperate amount of trouble, with a hopeless amount of candor.

I want to love forever with as many bodies as possible, or the same possible, but not one moment, but all of the moments. With such things in mind, nobody can understand that everything that doesn’t relate to it, matters little to me.

One, me, has to endure a lifetime of not making love, thinking about making love in each of these instances, and then suffering at the lack of future that will be demonstrated, again and again. That this problem will never be resolved, that I, and everyone else like me, will live wishing for something untenable and improperly handled.

I want to love not again and again, not repeatedly, not forever, but continuously, live in the same moment, where my euphoria is the only thing that matters, where I can be free of disgust and live comfortable in the naked skin that belongs to me. Not stopping and thrusting to death, and being thrusted to death, and relish when I go, where I go, and never having to think that I will never love or be loved again. It is not hard, but it is smooth, a delicate thought, a feeling that only I have in this one body.