If to say I've tasted flowers, seen the streets of twine, and groped Medusa's snake, is to throw oneself into the pool of corruption then drown me. My days and nights spent gaily to music of sensuous intoxication; the realization that dawn creeps invariably only projects another upcoming reverie.

I can look into the eyes of man and say she is, or breathe everything and loll my head back in careless ecstasy. Unafraid to touch, willing to be carressed by hornets and lost in the curves of elegant profanity it becomes clear we were made as creatures bent on vanquishing the utter desire we desperately crave.

It amounts to little, my body on yours. For it is the shade merely reflecting heat back to the sun, our bodies are precipitation, slowly sliding down the window panes of history. And liquid burns too, in sin and melancholy, created by our former selves a deity to imprison the flesh, sermonizing to inhibit what need not be created.

Glide across the room my ethereal king and queen. To you I shower the excess of my tongue. To you I erect, not the finite statues of yesterday, but my own blood, for it is infinite vapor to match the glory you radiate with every subtle footprint. We need not dwell on presence, I've seen the image and can rejoice.

Iconography the ruse of consolation. But every shutter of the eyelid produces yet another image. Am I to bow down and worship every stone and blade of grass, every strand of cloth, particle of dust, every branch and every drop of rain? Or question their veracity, curse the intangibility of experience, and damn your name?

I have traveled through space and time, felt the rush of the sea's mist against my face, I've burrowed my head in a lover's pillow for days on end, yet the pain lingers. The intolerable convolution of manifestation itself. We are, are not, and will be, never, too, in it, shut. Or opened for farce and debacle, another pair of lips.

The last time, the last. Not to ask for redemption from whoever could offer it, no two can. A clear lie traverses the space of acceptance, passes unscathed and morphs. This transition the only truth, and only time can give it another name. What that does to us but convince of nothing sanctimonious.

We could kill, sip, or inhale, all of the same gas and matter not. If your hair brushes against my face, it is the feeling I create out of simulated contact that registers, not the actual matter. Seeing that, and I've already contrived the scene, for seeing it not, will create another feeling, one of liberation, and register sweetly in our palms.

Isaac Johnson is a senior Media Studies major and a Literary writer for Generation.