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When we speak to one another, in my mind I take cognitive precautions not to sound like a horny, gaked-out Pat O'Brien blathering into his mistresses answering machine. Abdominal constrictions and temporal excretions pump fresh blood and serotonin, and my breath staggers in the aim of your frost-blue eyes. I watch your pupils dilate and inflame like a concerted stargazer when you laugh; your gaze pierces with a feather-tipped suction dart.

Yet my mind's eye disallows view at the axis of desire's center. Close enough to feel your warm breath whisper secrets into my ear; all the while I am physically paralyzed in this state. Physicality is not of my choice - though I fathom luminescent, twisting souls and thundering orgasmic death-rattles. A forced-hand prohibition on touch, though I'd give away my stained-glass heart just to stroke your milky skin... to run a forefinger from the base of your spine to line of your silken hair and capped with a kiss.

Such fleeting, bittersweet sensations, penultimate to my waking... now an aching deep inside my chest; your being creates stalactites of dry ice in my lungs. I see you as the final video princess, a nymph to be engraved in marble; a honey bee with kisses so fast, its tickle remains like some archaic specter of grace and vanity in the annals of holy Roman mythology.

The pain is only worth the hope that you understand.

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