Night Melody of the Pull.

I laze and observe the clouds morph into far afield citadels with alabaster domed turrets and silken walls of swirled grey until my sight dwindles behind nebulous film. Oh, quiescence! My fingertips fumble inertly along my bedside dresser, across the spattered tea-stained circles; picking up remnants of the saporous fluid. I collapse on my side with arms outstretched above my head, resting languidly there, angled like a leafless branch against a sky from which the sun retreats. All at once, I feel an anguished tremble strike at my heart with swift precision. I foresee myself curving inward and alternating from side to side and as those fluttering images circuit my mind's eye, so it happens. I must ask myself repeatedly what has shaped and induced such deleterious pining and my immediate thought settles on you. The curtain breathes in and exhales in a vigorous fashion as if someone is standing behind it, string-attached and mastering its flux like a puppeteer, sending a warmthless draft surf athwart my skin. Goosebumps bristle on my forearms while my onyx-choked pupils wax and wane in my reminiscence of your tender word, your charming and most arcane way that has never once failed to leave me bound in open-mouthed desire.