My Better Angel

Invisible longitudinals graded across my moist skin; plummy blips of dew bring to a close a refractive metaphor. I wonder if the esoteric ghosts will ever stop to play outside my window. The awareness of one's nudity has little meaning if the observer is vapor or fire; do they see me, I wonder. And yet profound is the impact perceiving gong bells causing ripples in shallow waters; then sound waves large enough could cause storms.

I would rather languorously caress a spear of lavender as I, being one with a particle of air, call the meadows to inhabit me. But I have made fragile promises to my lover, who has subjugated his soul to sublime vintages and their fidelity. Perhaps I can never fully have him. And then on the other side of my mirror dwell my subreptitious demons, always at the helm of a negating advocacy.

But, then, my innocent sanctum is consumed by my better angel. Desire is not an illogicality.