I somehow fail to express my short-lived gratitude at being slapped in the face. The rosy, blotchy bloom quickly rises, squelching my regards -an utterance- an apology.
You lent me impulsive emotion, intimate sensation, something best not blasphemed by self-infliction. In rendering my Likeness now, a smile perches on the edge of outrage; my Image is unperturbed, but far from the calm serenity it conveys.
Time heals my wound, but not the memory of impulsive contact, flesh pulverized by flesh in an exhilharating sensation. Never to be captured or relived, the memory serves me well as I venture, reluctantly, into the walking sleep and am delivered once again into novocaine reality.