It really isn’t any one thing, Sweetheart. We engage for a reason.
And this dance, this assault we wage on each other, it’s not unspoken foreplay…it’s Guantanamo Bay-type torture. Subversive, unmerciful, pervasive and unpredictable. This is a special kind of dangerous. Poor-but-delicious-life-choice dangerous. Acceptable-loss dangerous. Carve-a-notch-in-the- life-post dangerous.
This is medieval-fresco dangerous.
But, god damn…our hunger grows raw.
One more advancement in the guise of argument, these politics of mutually assured destruction, and this insatiable cold war we are waging, will consume us both.
And that just might be the answering of some dark prayer or desperate incantation. Our refuge from the dying world. A world of madness and suffocation. Let us breathe deep of the shouldering remnants of life’s youthful promise and salve our wounds and scars with blissful depravity.
These words I commit to paper, even, have my senses heightened, my reflexes focused and my mind ruminating on acts of war.
Who fires the fist salvo, who turns the keys for launch?