(no subject)

I thought I would try my hand at it.

San Angelo I loved you. The same as the night. Like poetry itself. The harder you made it, the more I tried. Even now, after all these years, the space between us still burns. You, the architect of every fantasy. That night (the last one), I had you again. I brought handcuffs, poppers, the works. I buried my face in your chest, without regret, like the last meal on Earth. When I roughed you a bit, you only tensed your lips. Hard, defiant. It turned me on even more.                 --after Baudelaire