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the taste of June still lingers on my tongue, the velvet-petalled lilies; November offers itself in the face of my bittersweet coffee and sweet company of my books (a forbidden prayer) through valleys of dreams, a guilty pleasure.
lipstick stains on my fingers adorned with garnets, words of Anaïs nin engraved on the shell of my memory: "the moon, the deaf, impassible goddess of desire shining down mockingly". even as i lie awake in lethargy i'm in ecstasy of this finite longing for something beautiful, a greater thing than i will ever be, a pleasure for the hungry eye. "For beauty will be Convulsive, or will not be at all !"
It's November seventh, my mind may be hungry, but i'm driven by its desire.
