Tryst

De Sade beams at you
-delighting at the sound of dead leaves crunching
underneath your taunting feet;
-gulping in deep breaths, wonderment,
when blowing away dandelion down, shrieking
as you scattered them into disrememberment;
-giggling at how a brook bitterly bottles up tears
while it sulks;
and yet, I still stay, yearning
as empty bottles and blank sheets of paper
-clinking to stall being abraded by silence
-flipping at the slightest breeze
so that dust won't bury me under your conciousness
deep
next to crushed leaves,
bald dandelion heads,
and wet choked sniffs
as Masoch applauds.