Agape

I slid back until my neck felt the coarse softness of the pillow.  These sheets smell like chemicals, an industrial scent. I imagine the delicate flowers were ruthlessly cut, bound in plastic and delivered into a factory; processed, extracted, preserved, until what was left was the faint essence of its pulp, a virgin bud overcome by strong ether and acid.

I imagine the hands that rumpled the cheap white sheets as they were transferred from the laundry shelf unto the bed.  Those hands must've been rough, hard and unfeeling.  And yet here I am, cherished by a young one whose feelings about his first experience with me he calls love.  I am those hands that rumple, that expertly carve the silhouette of white in a darkly-lit den of entrapment.  I hold the reins, I call the shots, and yet I am left wanting more.