There is no such thing as true perfection. In
the most perfect of gems beneath the surface of the naked eye, there
are flaws, hidden and waiting to be found. It will never know
perfection and will never know its flaws. I will never know it.
Perfection is beyond my grasp.
But I dream of it sometimes.
Once upon a time, I had something that was my treasure. Don't we all
have a treasure? Something that we have been looking for from the
moment we left the womb, wet and bloody and cold, and already in
search of something that we might well never find.
A treasure.
I found mine when I was still so very young and that was a blessing
and a curse. No longer did I have to search, what might have been a
life's pursuit was ended when I was young enough to enjoy it and too
young to appreciate it. Too young to protect it.
Treasure always invites thieves.
Women with dark eyes and many-hued skin, soft lips with wordless
invitations. Men, harder than women, stronger and just as beautiful
and enticing in their own way.
Thieves, all of them.
But what they sought to steal was not so easily swayed, again my
blessing, my curse, that someone had held this treasure once, with
rough, clumsy fingers and they had dropped it, shattered it on the
cold floor.
One can repair what has been broken, but it will never be as it once
was.
But I knew that what I had found was priceless, its fractures only
making it more so and I would have given anything to possess it, and
did. I gave everything that could be wanted, determination and need,
obedience and willfulness. My mind, my heart and eventually, my
body.
Everything.
Too young, I was so young to find such a precious gift and too young
again to understand. How was it possible to be so close to
perfection and to be so cold?
Cold, cold, within and without and how can one be naked in arms of
their lover,
(master)
and be so cold? How could one be naked and sprawled on silken
sheets, scratchy blankets, cool tile, in a bedroom, in a swamp,
making love,
(fucking)
with warm, sweat slick flesh sliding against
(within)
you and still be
(cold)
cold. So cold, wintry breath of coldness within. Cold because he was
cold, distant and cold and he would take whatever I offered, take
and take and drain me dry and still he...
You.
You were cold. Mine, my master, my lover who was carved with
exquisite intricacy from ice. You were so cold to me, always.
A thief did steal you from me, one that I couldn't guard you from.
Death is a thief with cold, skilled fingers. They will all be here
soon, I have precious little time to mourn and I see you here before
me, cold to touch, always cold to me. I look at you and wonder at
what I see.
What was I to you? An apprentice, a convenience, a nuisance. What
did you see when you looked at me, that you held nothing for me
within but ice. I was nothing that you loved, nothing at all.
But even now, you look to me like something that was my treasure.
-finis-
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mailto:keelywolfe@gmail.com
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