Tales of the Queer: My Lover Knows No Temperance

She allows me to do with her the works that I chose. She doesn’t shy away from hands held. Though stiffness in her joints, her lips never move further from mine. Her kisses are so still and simplistic. Always a welcome, slightly parted. She never lets out a grunt or a moan, leaving me never to question the mutuality of our feelings. Such beauty she is; the shrike’s prey is mimicry, but only half as beautiful as she.

Related Story: Tales of the Queer: I’ll See You Again  My lover’s austerity gives other’s unease. No plans ahead, her life deemed forlorn. But her entanglement with me is enough for Orpheus to envy. No deal with the fallen can ever end her reverie. My lover’s slumber is like the rise of the sun. No calls of the fox or screeching of winds can make her prostrate form rise until I make headway. She doesn’t spew diatribes at passersby, for her love is given in a nebulous way. Her skin granular as my fingertips trace the prominence of her veins. Eyelids heavy, closed halfway, staring at my complexion and Gemini. My lover’s body, thin. Pisiform mountains holding her wrist as flaccid hands skim the features on my face. Feeling the hills and sharp turns of her hips. blue-and-black marks of admiration on her neck. Her slit now like the river of Ehrwald, her flower wilted but giving. Devotion to her body, wane, and wonder. My lover brings life. To feed the Earth with her being, she is maternal. Flooding ducts with rushes of blood and seed to fertilize the damp grass. The mayfly finds solace within, her final days, letting go into oblivion, her mate not too far behind, like my lover and I.