Les petites morts*
I have to believe that the only thing wrong with this otherwise perfect turn of the french tongue is scale. There seems to be nothing small whatsoever in this cosmic game you and I play.
Calling out over and over in this most ultimate of ecstasies, there is no end, only endings.
‘Insatiable,’ your repeated murmur.
‘Greedy one! Stop anytime.’ I might counter in response, though only in my after-imaginings—there is no room for thoughts or words in this delectable dance of decease.
Taken with uncountable deaths under the prowess of your magical hands ——no wait, your tongue, head, cock, knees, arms, nose, heart... I must wonder if a part of you exists that can’t elicit these death sentences.
With each, I am born anew, only to take in even more of you. And so, it repeats, breathing in, then out, then not at all. I might conclude that we’ve discovered immortality. I (we) cannot otherwise drop this many times and still resurface, can we?
Again and again I enter worlds beyond as you immerse yourself in the universe within me. Yet again you submerse yourself in my black hole as I succumb to the cosmos of our divine ‘little’ deaths.