11:11

Impractical idealism. 

Or is it visionary intuition?

Re-charging the universe, I wonder whether an entire set of 60 seconds exists simply so that I can prey upon this masonic number. 

Signaling a change, confirming chance...

11:11, flashes.

Selfishly I close my eyes, silencing my wish, obstructing intrusive listeners.

My world waits. You come to mind.

Opportunity abounds yet I desire only one thing.

Scanning from the bottom up, the physiology of your tactile and supple lips penetratingly call out for my attention.

An erogenous weapon paralyzing the efforts of even the most worthy of competitors. 

Hauntingly beautiful, the muscles stretch ever so slightly across the perfection of your face. 

Customarily a cultural expression denoting pleasure, my intuition confirms that I seal the envelope of your principle.

From my peripheral vision, I sense the desperation in your gaze.

Palpitations accelerate. Glands perspire. Intimacies excite.

11:12.

Temporary termination of "the moment."

Eyes wide open. 

Reality is made shockingly observable as I encounter the animate object of my desire in the metaphysical.

In that solitary moment, I acutely acknowledge what I crave not to lose.

The textures and tones of your body...

The impurities of intention...

The synonymity of psyches...

It then becomes painstakingly unbearable to imagine your impermanence.

Desiring the will to trace back time, I recant 11:12 desiring only its unitary predecessor.