By Anant Chaudhary
He says to himself— Oh Misery? My darling dear. Tell me, shall I become today a miser? To have you make me be unhappy, be wretched— but to keep you—the slaver—bound to me—the slave—still. In this I seek solace, as I am teased by your lustful lips which rest on mine, on this morning dew-blanketed grass we lay. As I am teased, my heart rests still—knowing that you shan’t make anyone else be unhappy, be wretched. Oh Misery. My darling dear! What a foolish thought! What a foolish thought I have indeed.
And she supposedly says in his mind— Oh but darling dear? Is it just my lustful lips that rest on yours? Is it not your hold on me? And, oh, pray tell, is it not you that takes his misery as lustful lips that tease his own? Do I, your Misery, not make you smile unhappy? Yours is a foolish thought indeed, for I am your Misery only, indeed. And you, a miser? For me—always, always, indeed