A Drabble
My lust is a microscope: cold, precise, and objective. Thats not to say that I dont want. I want more than anything. But my lust for you is the same as my lust for a Caravaggio painting, for a Stein poem, for a Miles trumpet line. I am not so interested in you, dear, as what you could mean, what you could represent. The flame of my desire is indeed gemlike: rigid, hard, sharp enough to cut.
But do not think this is something other than lust, dear. It is. Its just the lust of Apollo, and not of Dionysus.
My lust is a microscope: cold, precise, and objective. Thats not to say that I dont want. I want more than anything. But my lust for you is the same as my lust for a Caravaggio painting, for a Stein poem, for a Miles trumpet line. I am not so interested in you, dear, as what you could mean, what you could represent. The flame of my desire is indeed gemlike: rigid, hard, sharp enough to cut.
But do not think this is something other than lust, dear. It is. Its just the lust of Apollo, and not of Dionysus.