The Purest Ecstacy.

Within a strictly private chamber
we entertain trite conversation,
assured that others speak critically of us
in other rooms
that lack the dancing drapes and lavish adornments.
I have overheard their misconceptions;
I do not care for their opinions.
In attendance are four guests and I,
but the centrepieces of this room;
this house; this street; this town
are the two women who sprawl themselves
invitingly upon purple cushions
and whisper, ‘play my games.’
These two are rare breeds.

One with skin as polished as frost,
crystal kaleidoscope eyes
locked fervently on my own:
Madame Desideria Madeleine Achard;
a mystery of exquisite tastes; between thirty and forty,
though it differs every time I inquire.
Her lip twitches into a smirk on one side,
until she cannot control herself
and beams a telling smile.
Too much of this temptress will ruin a man.
Though now she is on her pedestal, soon
I will consume her - crush her -
and forget altogether
why I forbade myself from indulging.

On the other side sits a contrasting luxury,
a budding flower, innocent
yet often misunderstood.
She calls herself simply Mary,
though I have heard she goes by other names.
We have met many times before,
in dim lighting or at gatherings
where her presence slows time.
The scent of her perfume sedates me
and awakens a rapture
that I feel only in her company.
She caresses my shoulders;
my mind; my spirit with sensitive touches
of her ashen flowing hands.

When I awake Desideria will be gone
and I will be glad of it,
and though Mary remains
her alluring facets will have burned away.
I will draw the curtains,
each hour hand and first digit will go unnoticed,
and we will appreciate her company
until well after she has gone;
until the last trace of her scent has dissolved.
I will hear often of Desideria’s frolics,
but I will avoid her confrontations
because I know what is good for me.
Mary, on the other hand,
is always welcome in my home.