Member-only story
Always So Keen for a Play of Passion
Prose Poetry
Did you think for one moment that we might last longer than a night? Oh, I can make the boys sing for a moment, but then they always flutter away to their corners when the dance music comes on.
No one likes to join me in my interludes, and so I dance to the rhythm of my own body, alone and separate, a creature that can’t be tamed.
Some men have the eyes of hunters, and they try to capture me in their lock view. It’s easy enough to pretend they aren’t there, their burning eyes left to linger on someone else’s back.
But sometimes the lingering looks make me feel more powerful. Then I tell myself I’m a force, a whirlwind in the middle of the night, a storm waiting to break on the horizon.
I can try to convince you I’ll stay, but passion always sputters out. There’s no whim or reason to it. All I know is that your hand felt good in mine, and I’d like to know what other touches of yours I’ll crave.
Are you ready for a game? Quick, the timer’s running, and it’s best if you aren’t late to the party. An hour like ours can feel like an eternity or the duration of five minutes; it all depends on how our forms connect and then depart, like trains leaving from the same station but heading in opposite directions.
