Here I lie on my bed made for two.
Belly down in his favorite shirt, my favorite shirt.
Blonde hair in a tangled mess tumbling down my back, spilling over my shoulder and face.
A Candle burns on my bedside table. Sandalwood.
Cigarette burning in a dish on the edge of the bed. I only smoke when I am like this,
-when I write.
The words force with convictions, yet with no sense of purpose. I form the symbols as they conceive with no certain direction, coming from a curse which impends,
yet still manifests as my greatest gift.
The words come faster now.
A smile crosses my lips. I feel a shutter come from deep inside my navel.
I know this aphrodisiac well, and the sensual euphoria it owns.
Forever marking my thoughts, and pouring through my fingertips to leave its impression to be eternally written and tattooed on my soul.
Scratching imagery on paper as quickly as I breathe.
My hand cannot catch my thoughts fast enough. I race to catch up in fear that the story will be forever lost.
I know keys would be less pain and faster, but a pencil to me is quite melancholy. Forcing one to work for their supper.
A tiny lead stained bump on my middle finger stings with every stroke of my wooden tool.
I relish the bittersweet pain.
As the ending to my series of epic self-gratification begins to unfold, I feel a chill run through my body from deep within. A warmth washes over my skin, making my pulse quicken.
Yes, there it is.
It is almost there!
How shall it end?
No. Don't force the words.
Let them come, Let then come.
And they do.
I slide my tongue over my lips in anticipation. I catch my breath. A slight giggle escapes my throat, like a child with a secret to tell.
My heart is beating fast now.
Faster! Even Faster yet!
My fingers ache as I near the end. My breath catches in my throat, and for only a moment I close my eyes.
Atlas, the final release, -so sweet.
A tear fills my dilated eye as I write the last word...
FIN.
I lay my head down on my private masterpiece for only a moment.
The candle flickers.
The bedroom door slowly opens.
I shift to one side, lift my messed hair away from my face and look up at him with my glassy green eyes. He says I am the most beautiful when I am like this,
-when I write.
Then he whispers, "Lets Make Love."
I take a long drag from my cigarette, slowly exhale, and with a sultry smile I reply, "I'm sorry my love, for I already have."
