“I had a little dream, about you and I … for two nights in a row … very interesting.”
The door snibs shut lightly and with a click as your lips part to show a toothy smile. My pale jade eyes loiter as you hook a thumb behind my buckled belt. You curl your bare feet to rise and kiss my jaw’s corner before a hand knits into mine. Leading me along only a couple of paces, I stop and play on my “reluctance”. Pulling you close again, laughter weighted with mischief, yours, ripples through the room. My nervous fingers fumble over the tan line sported on your hip, now exposed between a denim skirt and ecru tee. Your skin, still burnished by August, is warm. There’s no music to accompany our eyes’ tango. I can only curse beneath what little breath remains in my lungs. Words now will only spoil.
Your slender fingers rise to my cheek before curling slightly around my ear. They slide down my face, neck and broad shoulders. After all these months they are still keen as razor blades.
Your comely hips now between my hands, we stagger to the dining table, where I squeeze between the chairs and sit on the tabletop. I should emphasise the word stagger, because the renewed tangle of our lips has left little alternative.
Still pushing yourself between my legs, your lithe tanned arms replace the blazer on my shoulders. The kiss breaks gently. We are still cheek-to-cheek as your hot breath feathers against my chin. Exposing my tongue to parched lips, the voice that escapes is barely heard by the ear they graze.
“Turn around.”
Complying with a demure twist of your lips, the about-face barely breaks contact with my inner thighs. My left hand curls around your waist while my right gently sweeps the brunette tresses from your neck as I lean in and kiss your nape. Sliding a soft-skinned hand beneath your shirt, my shortly-kept aristocratic fingers spread over that fleshy part just between your shoulder blade and your rib cage with dedicated tenderness.
My fingers have been eagerly awaiting their opportunity to climb the cool thigh concealed. Not yet. At once your fingers curl around your shirt’s hem. I dissuade you too. “What’s your hurry, babe?” You ease yourself into me. Taking my right wrist, you guide my hand with all the delicacy of a feather over your navel.
The tingling begins in my fingertips and hums through me, punctuated by the steady and resonant thud beneath my ribs. It is short-lived. A sickness strikes. It feels as though a necromancer has reached into my chest and with his putrid hand, through blackened and gangrenous fingers, directly injected his viscous, inky, venom. And it impregnates every thought.
My mind hisses with celerity. It is as if somebody has prised open my mind and cancerous thoughts of malice, loathing, contempt and disappointment cascade from my head like roe. My memory churns. You have made these honeyed “ironclad” promises before and I drank them willingly, insatiably. History exhorts me to now question fate. I wrest your body from mine in an abrupt yet fluid motion and stand.
In a covetous whisper, I steel myself with the reminder that this will not be his victory. There are older, fouler and decidedly more repellent things in the world. I strangle the aggravated scream welling in my stomach’s pit.
“Babe, it’s me.”
Thus, I am hewn. One glint of brine in your eyes and I am leashed again. Forgive me, but perhaps the fact that it is you is precisely the problem. The implicit, precious, words that swirl behind my closed lips urge to be uttered, but I daren’t put voice to them. They are only simple words that I scarcely use, owing to their habit of befuddling reason. I wonder with some unkindness how long it has been since you heard them coupled with sincerity and willingness.
I promised myself long before you came into my life, that I would never again be the reason for the tears of she whom I …
Taking a nervous step toward you again and taking gently you by the hands, my right thumb rubs over where I most wish to stake claim. I can smell the jasmine-scented fear that bleeds from you. You’re scared, I get it, but it’s OK, ‘cos I am too, just a little.
You’re scared that the shroud that cloaks your imperfections will slip, and that I will finally get a good look at you and it will somehow disturb and distort my feelings for you. It won’t, and you need to believe that.
After entrusting this heart to only a few, and to you more than once, I cannot help but speculate on how long this renewed sense of dedication will last. Though, the comforting flipside is that in a venal world, thick with tempests of duplicity and distrust, recriminations and accusations, I found shelter and for the first time in what seem like eons, I feel safe.
Months ago, in one of my darkest hours, you stood before me, fingers creeping at my arms asking for all of me, as you finally gave me all of yourself. The reply composed was for you alone, and though it may not be necessary, I repeat it, as you err with shirt buttons, and the knot slides from my collar.
-------------------------
Addendum: Sunday night
Not for the first time, you broke my heart this morning. We’ve at last come full circle. But this time, it’s different. I’m not walking away. I can’t. Work has been a trial these past two days. Bulldozers would be more effective chasing butterflies. Every thought has been of you. My spirit was with you. I wish the rest of me could be also. Soon.
In a strange way, it’s an honour to haunt your sleeping hours. I wish it was something more than Pyrrhic.
The door snibs shut lightly and with a click as your lips part to show a toothy smile. My pale jade eyes loiter as you hook a thumb behind my buckled belt. You curl your bare feet to rise and kiss my jaw’s corner before a hand knits into mine. Leading me along only a couple of paces, I stop and play on my “reluctance”. Pulling you close again, laughter weighted with mischief, yours, ripples through the room. My nervous fingers fumble over the tan line sported on your hip, now exposed between a denim skirt and ecru tee. Your skin, still burnished by August, is warm. There’s no music to accompany our eyes’ tango. I can only curse beneath what little breath remains in my lungs. Words now will only spoil.
Your slender fingers rise to my cheek before curling slightly around my ear. They slide down my face, neck and broad shoulders. After all these months they are still keen as razor blades.
Your comely hips now between my hands, we stagger to the dining table, where I squeeze between the chairs and sit on the tabletop. I should emphasise the word stagger, because the renewed tangle of our lips has left little alternative.
Still pushing yourself between my legs, your lithe tanned arms replace the blazer on my shoulders. The kiss breaks gently. We are still cheek-to-cheek as your hot breath feathers against my chin. Exposing my tongue to parched lips, the voice that escapes is barely heard by the ear they graze.
“Turn around.”
Complying with a demure twist of your lips, the about-face barely breaks contact with my inner thighs. My left hand curls around your waist while my right gently sweeps the brunette tresses from your neck as I lean in and kiss your nape. Sliding a soft-skinned hand beneath your shirt, my shortly-kept aristocratic fingers spread over that fleshy part just between your shoulder blade and your rib cage with dedicated tenderness.
My fingers have been eagerly awaiting their opportunity to climb the cool thigh concealed. Not yet. At once your fingers curl around your shirt’s hem. I dissuade you too. “What’s your hurry, babe?” You ease yourself into me. Taking my right wrist, you guide my hand with all the delicacy of a feather over your navel.
The tingling begins in my fingertips and hums through me, punctuated by the steady and resonant thud beneath my ribs. It is short-lived. A sickness strikes. It feels as though a necromancer has reached into my chest and with his putrid hand, through blackened and gangrenous fingers, directly injected his viscous, inky, venom. And it impregnates every thought.
My mind hisses with celerity. It is as if somebody has prised open my mind and cancerous thoughts of malice, loathing, contempt and disappointment cascade from my head like roe. My memory churns. You have made these honeyed “ironclad” promises before and I drank them willingly, insatiably. History exhorts me to now question fate. I wrest your body from mine in an abrupt yet fluid motion and stand.
In a covetous whisper, I steel myself with the reminder that this will not be his victory. There are older, fouler and decidedly more repellent things in the world. I strangle the aggravated scream welling in my stomach’s pit.
“Babe, it’s me.”
Thus, I am hewn. One glint of brine in your eyes and I am leashed again. Forgive me, but perhaps the fact that it is you is precisely the problem. The implicit, precious, words that swirl behind my closed lips urge to be uttered, but I daren’t put voice to them. They are only simple words that I scarcely use, owing to their habit of befuddling reason. I wonder with some unkindness how long it has been since you heard them coupled with sincerity and willingness.
I promised myself long before you came into my life, that I would never again be the reason for the tears of she whom I …
Taking a nervous step toward you again and taking gently you by the hands, my right thumb rubs over where I most wish to stake claim. I can smell the jasmine-scented fear that bleeds from you. You’re scared, I get it, but it’s OK, ‘cos I am too, just a little.
You’re scared that the shroud that cloaks your imperfections will slip, and that I will finally get a good look at you and it will somehow disturb and distort my feelings for you. It won’t, and you need to believe that.
After entrusting this heart to only a few, and to you more than once, I cannot help but speculate on how long this renewed sense of dedication will last. Though, the comforting flipside is that in a venal world, thick with tempests of duplicity and distrust, recriminations and accusations, I found shelter and for the first time in what seem like eons, I feel safe.
Months ago, in one of my darkest hours, you stood before me, fingers creeping at my arms asking for all of me, as you finally gave me all of yourself. The reply composed was for you alone, and though it may not be necessary, I repeat it, as you err with shirt buttons, and the knot slides from my collar.
-------------------------
Addendum: Sunday night
Not for the first time, you broke my heart this morning. We’ve at last come full circle. But this time, it’s different. I’m not walking away. I can’t. Work has been a trial these past two days. Bulldozers would be more effective chasing butterflies. Every thought has been of you. My spirit was with you. I wish the rest of me could be also. Soon.
In a strange way, it’s an honour to haunt your sleeping hours. I wish it was something more than Pyrrhic.