My Red String

I place my imaginary covert red string around your ankles and trace it all the way up until it arches above your eyebrows. I twirl you around in its and I swear you look like a Picasso painting. I take a step back to let my decadence rock for a moment. I look into the foaming green coming out of your irises and watch the waves crash in their entropy. You look out the window. I rethink and maybe your eyes are arboreal instead and that the green is growing until it reaches the sky it looks at. You look so good like that, tangled up in what’s mine. I step forward and make my red string corporeal, and you’re so credulous you just stand there for me diaphanously. I tighten my strings and they turn to deleterious rope. I wrap my fingers through your hair as if I’m unwinding your seemingly inscrutable brain, picking apart the synapses that keep you together. My fingernails are imperious and impetuously dig deeper in their intransigent course. I try to make them stop but their need is indelible; my fervid want for you is antediluvian. Your wandering mind splatters on the walls and the flesh inches its way to down to the carpet. Your eyes are pink and blue and lachrymose with purple corners. The rope releases and I follow your body onto the floor. I lie on top of your supine body stretching my lips to your ear singing a mellifluous tune. You slowly become torpid and finally fall asleep. I dress you in your best black dress and set you upright in the corner for the night. I kiss you goodnight and promise to be back in the morning.