Phoesune

    Most of my life is spent in silence and dark boredom. I sit here on the precipice on my own corner of the world. Alone. I long for a hot fire to throb through my circuits and give me that purpose, the scintillating oscillating voltage shuttering violently through the wires. These long hours of night drag on like long eons till she comes with the morning light to sit on her throne of soft Corinthian leather. Oh she won’t notice me at first taking her time to search through her purse for some odd or end. She’ll gently twist the mirror to gaze upon her in deep admiration. That poor mirror treated so roughly for her amusement, that wonderful mirror that stares deep into her eyes with borrowed sight. That mirror, with unflinching devotion, fixing its gaze upon her as she paints the canvas of her countenance. Her lips pursed to accept the caress of lipstick beg for a kiss but the mirror is denied. I have often wondered if it would be better to live as I do or to be forced to endure such pleasure unrequited. Satisfied, she turns the reflective glass away so it could sob in its loneliness.

    She rummages again for her keys, those wild tools that bring us life, yet they hide from her furious touch. They never want to be found as they alone among all creation are the instruments of her penetration. Discovering the wayward implements, she shakes and shapes them till she is grasping the shaft of that one long virulent key and cupping the rest in the palm of her hand. With a moan of satisfaction she thrusts the utensil into the ignition and with a flip of her wrist brings the world to life. This too I could not bear.

    Blaring its surprise, the radio thumps to some unholy beat a reminder of the wild events of a former life. Her hand moves with a sudden jab to silence the beast, then slowly with gentle rubbing rotating motions bends the radio to her will. Calming this animal and making it sing her tune. She releases it. I could not be tamed in such a way. I am not some simple beast that can be caged or coddled into submission. I need the excitement of sudden romance and the rhythmic thunder of little lightnings to make me alive.

    Satisfied that her world is in order she places her left hand firmly on the great circular wheel of destiny. In this way she controls the skies. She can make the trees fly and the stars flee with just the slight spin of that wheel. Her right hand grabs some distant rod that protrudes on the other side of the wheel. I saw this thing once when she was riding down a hill and had pulled it below the column. It did not appear to be anything special but I believe it gives her life direction. She will touch it and make trees once passed come back again. I do not know her relationship with this false imitator of me. Where it might send her back and forth, it is I that she turns to for a new direction. Sure the Wheel obeys her but it is I she seeks wisdom from.

    It is I she touches in those moments of great urgency when going forward in her life is no longer an option, and I give her this willingly. For when she presses me down with her hand, it gives me that rush of a thousand volts of pure ecstasy. That drumming, that pounding, that erotic thumping of life flowing through and back again. For a moment, I am alive with a vital heartbeat giving me sensation and revelation. She too is imbued with wisdom as she takes my lead and yanks on the wheel to obey the course of our connection. The pulsating reaches a fever pitch and she finds release and releases the wheel and frees me to explode into silence again. Erect again she reaches under me and pulls me up towards the heavens restoring the juicy flow and the violence again. Turning now the other way, she looks toward the mirror and flashes that mischievous smile toward it as a way to taunt me to more virulent excesses. Again we find release and again she drives me down. On this goes for what seems like eternity till we reach the end of the universe.

     Here the world above is brighter and the trees are different. She reaches over to give me one more caress, a thank you for such a wonderful time. She hugs the wheel, pulling herself close. Then after a slight pause, as if in afterglow, she reaches for the key, twists and pulls.

    So yeah, I may envy the mirror its glance into her eyes, or the key for its voyages with her. I might even wish for the caresses she gives to the wheel or the petting the radio gets. I might even want the powerful control of the shifter hidden on the other side of the world. Any of these would be nice, but they all envy me for the pure sensual delight we find in each other. That’s because we click. Maybe sometime, I’ll tell you about that one night when the blinker went out and my heart beat so fast I thought I was going to die, but then again, some things are best kept between a lover and her friend.