Absinthe

Molten wax drips down the copper sconce onto the end table while you light my cigarette and  offer me a pale green aperitif    which I do not touch until you feign fascination at simple  anecdotes that I find trivial enough to share with you. Easing  into a faded blur we  lean back against brocade cushions. Now, in a somewhat dreamier state of mind you attempt to further  distract me with details of your recent dalliance with a french contemporary artist until I yawn with boredom. Suddenly, the embodiment of elegance, you  smile and arch your brow, once again hold the spoon gently to my lips and in your impossibly delectable rhythm whisper that my hair and fair skin, so near, whips your mind into arousal and my supple lips are a  crimson darkness that consumes you.  I  lean  into your far off voice  and my subconscious begins to  vibrate…