Playtime of two lukewarm lovers.

"To M., who is not my lover, but with all the love I can muster." F.D., on his blog, disguising a dedication as a quote

In the hall,
through which we seared,
Leaving the wooden boards,
Of the dark and smooth surface,
scorched beyond recognition,
The clock is tick tock ticking,
The plates are well guarded
In the cupboard,
Not a thing is breathing,
We are living in the bedroom,
We are quilts of flesh.

You are a delicious creature,
Beautiful beyond my language,
I will not try to describe you.

I told you:
“Bliss is brittle,
Happiness, once achieved,
After the toil and travel,
On the long and shady road,
Of despair and failing,
Is a mere smile,
Forever lost in an instant,
Torn down like,
The organic treepapers,
Their veins, their tissue,
The ugliness of the flowerless,
The hopes and dreams,
Of thoughtless things,
All killed by the unconscious wind.
Still.
Will you smile at me?
Give me a small peck?
It will only take a second.
And afterwards,
We’ll go out and get a pizza.“

Your lips touch my cheeks,
We become more like the room
And less like humans,
History has just ceased to be relevant,
And a new narrative smoothly unfolds,
It will all end in disaster,
But I'm not complaining.