The Fickle Lover

I’m as self-absorbed as to fall in love with my own words. For days, engrossed in the dark, I craft and hone a beautifully sick relationship in depth. I love and love and love and they respond in kind.

Often they glide right off my mind’s tongue. Gently, softly, deliberately. I sweetly smooth them… this way, that. I stroke their lovely little serifs. Wiggle my fingers into their curves until they shiver into place. Just. So.

Others anxiously gurgle out of me in fits and spurts and spasms, they are willful and decisive and I must ardently molest and defile and ultimately topple them. They reward me with an arousing fight. Until finally they submit.

I can be an impatient, pedantic lover. Pushing towards release without care. To relieve myself of them, get them sorted on their suffering way. Often it is just too early. I feel guilty and begin to resent them. Often it is just too early to tell.

I am the only one that has read them as much and for much and for long. But I soon relapse into my place as the fickle lover. When the next idea is splayed open across the screen for my use, I quickly abandon what is written past. Without giving it a second thought.