Capricious

55 - Opium Den

"Love is friendship that has caught fire. It is quiet understanding, mutual confidence, sharing and forgiving. It is loyalty through good and bad times. It settles for less than perfection and makes allowances for human weaknesses."
- Ann Landers

We meet in the cold of the evening, tropical cocktails at the bay, short lived we turn from formalities, searching for something deeper. And hidden under the bridge we find it, a den with a fragrant allure, drawing us from our first steps. Decorated without control, an extravagant display of wild and loose, exotic and strange, mystical and trippy. I love it. A fresco of alien figures and objects, roofed above us, splayed along the walls, growing from the floor. A deluge of intimate madness enveloping our effortless drunken debauchery, songs so delightful and familiar played throughout. The coalescing of patterns and trinkets and art of many shades and forms, blending together to play over us, inciting our imaginations beyond the normal flow, to childhood and music and passion. Some conversation of interest, yet that only seems to stem from me, an invisible wall ever threatening to collapse between us, but for our lust that couldn't care. Cosy cuddles and kisses in the cushions, caressing each other in our privacy, hungering for our shells when we could be caught, departing so we can play on. Approach we do, bodies slowly connecting, as clothes fly and lights dim, to lick and suck and fuck. Now less of a novelty, more of a chore, trying to enjoy it, mind reaching to make myself cum. What I lust for elsewise in my lonesome, that seems now so mundane. Maybe my body is broken, too used to fantasy, running through the motions nonetheless, but it's not the same. Less comfortable, a blander touch, harder to sleep alongside her. Morning comes with my feelings dulled, little more to say, the deal is done, playing the part with little pleasure at all. My thoughts after surging between periodic pleasure at fitting somewhere, sun raining upon my curling mouth, and clouds of darkness brought on by the relative grief of memory's love. I am not in love with her, I am not cured, maybe mere curiosity was all it was, nothing to fill the dreams of my aching heart, because it's not the same.

To be together, we require a compatibility of personalities and sexuality, with some you may find one, yet others you will not be, and as such you can't be, regardless whatever else there is.

Answering every question I ever had from my own point of view, of the feelings dealt to one another in a mix of love and lust and kindness and selfishness, there is never any escaping the pain, it only becomes more bearable, and so my understanding grows, walking down the steps, under the misty rain of an indigo sky, realisation destroying the mind of my past.

Joining up with a butterfly, raving stories running wild, analysing more to every conversation, and how our voices seem to match. A return to the den, bursting free with our interpretation of society, loving every minute, to not feel ashamed to be me. Ruminating over ideas, how people work, how we became who we are, how we changed, testing the limits of our souls. The enlightened, though all may feel so. Spilling deeper truths, discovering myself, and learning of another, and more of how I've changed. This is not a series of common words without worth, this is a conversation of meaning. I feel a connection, a freedom with her, as if flirting without lust nor love, simply the purest of friends. Shooting up on honesty. This is what I need, this is what I crave.

Every acquaintance in my life willing enough to share some mind, the damaged blondes I fall for poisoning me, most friends of a niceness left behind even though, sustaining only those of a similar soul under a mutual desire. The natural change we resist or mourn, that lets us be who we are most of all.

We're all weird, but the weirder thing is, when an increasing number of similarly weird people come together, they begin to no longer be deemed weird, but normal.

Touring round a fresh new city, a greyer world with yet more colour, opened abreast like a magic trick, in such a soft eloquent drizzle that doesn't seem to threaten at all. Entranced by frames of nature, a change in exposure upon perspective upon eye, gruesome colours of contrast, symbols of intrigue running wild. A stir of teaching and learning as knowledge collides, elements of interest I always envied now running free, for the time and place is here and now and fearless in its scream to the world around us. Sampling tastes of her realm and together discovering our own, that go down smoother than once thought, veering into more interesting territory to unearth the secrets to this precarious enigma of a world that was previously such a taboo, a world of love and lust from all points of view. Finding we're on the same page, it's easier this way, half the pleasure of love with none of the pain. Time melts away, even small silences seem fitting, only breathers for our streaming minds, souls cosier at the least. Time flies away, plans ever changing, roaming back to pastures known, knowing she belongs to me. We play away for the sake of her desire, and again whenever we wake, not as pleasurable as phantoms of the past, yet still a frantic fit as I finally finish in her mouth. And yet afterwards absolved, finding sleeping alongside her easier, else exhausted by the adventures of the day and the mischief of the night.

It is the era of loveless lovers, that's what I understand now, save for those as naive as I, for what else is there for us, living so many different lives, so very differently, an open lust towards for its simplicity, afraid of other possibilities for they may break us, and so we carry on, as judgement drops away, maturing healthily, an easy shield to hide behind, till lost loves rise anew, but until then we'll play.