We Were Discussing Erotica

Your pale face seen through a glass of Rosea, lips painted, gashed scarlet by the dumbstruck songs of your blood. Your eyes are a cosmic darkness yet as bright as Samurai swords, blades that piece both my mind and yours. We were discussing erotica, how freeing it was to be bound, how the flimsy drapes of black on white or white on black can make the skin glow like the soul of a virgin. Such choreographed passions should be a dance upon a slow fuse, for the flash of the fire itself is but a brief sun-flare, and quickly leads to meaningless words of love, or the gagged silence of separation.