Fires, Unfaithful

heaven ... is my prison ... that dreamy, white tangle of percale where your limbs and mine weave sweaty magic - a moon-daubed canvas of pyretic passion, public ... no shut-door, drawn-curtain modesty to confine or make sacred ... the danger of chance discovery is our brush, our pigments but blood ... water ... (pray, this haughty consideration of both ... and each - is not the nectar of veins more binding? yet, in all its giving of life, water - the most earthly flow, abundant - is exceedingly more precious ... more crucial in dynamism to all the Universe than that which clots for kings of kings of kings ... and those who keep little lives in their pocket, squeezing tears from a passion's pains) ... we watch the strokes of our masterpiece take shape ... our fleshy doppelgangers echo us on strategically beveled mirror ceiling panels ... an exquisite debauchery - the perfect pauses in your form demanding the gaze ... oh, to waste away like Erised in contemplation of your provocative pieces and bits ... torrid,, touchable temples that I build myself for the spying eyes we count on ... wives, husbands, leches, learners - a grand performance, ours ... and ... from the ashes of our god, do we arise, (blood, tears and marrow) ... our mortal senses gone, wagered in feigned dignity or hope, these buttresses will stand proud for the sacrifices of character ... and kindnesses ... or crumble in care for the chaste as my illicit actress and I ... burn.