Just enough to reveal the pale landscape of me. Continue reading “Minimal”
She woke up to the sensation of his fingertips gently stroking her throat as she slept. His closeness bred both panic and comfort, a reaction that had kept them both on their toes throughout her recovery. She recoiled and paused, registering that it was only him, he looked at her in the half light of the early morning with patience and love. Continue reading “The first four months”
He kneels in front of me before the mirror as he was told, his perfect cheeks are pressed into his heels, the dimples in the small of his back are dramatically shadowed in the low light. These details make my mouth wet and I can’t decide where to look first or longest. Continue reading ““Use me.””
The open window lets the night in and it
hangs itself damply about the room.
Alert, lathered with sweat,
she is a caged animal,
feral with desire, marked for madness.
She turns and twists in the sodden sheets, heart enraged as her body suffers without him.
Dreaming in a far away language,
he wriggles as he wills her fingertips to
scorch him, one more time, make it last this time.
He hears his name, hot as fresh honey on her lips, his name again, rolling around in her mouth like a smooth stone. He wonders if this fever will ever break.
Winter is our season, yours and mine.
Hardscrabble, tough won comforts,
words incubated in the dark.
Hope etched in ice.
I’ll step in your big footsteps in the snow,
single file along the riverbank
to hear your voice rasp
and cloud the cold air.
Love under great cedars
fast icy water.
Mittened hands clasped,
calling back to the wolves,
fighting tears and memories,
Follow me into the forest, amongst the trees and wild things. Lose yourself with me and we can stay lost forever.
I don’t realize how heavy my sigh is, how slumped my shoulders are. It’s been a long week and I’m grateful to not have plans on a Friday night, glad to be in pajamas at 7pm with my feet tucked under his thighs, curled into the couch, idly scrolling through photos on my phone. I’m comfortable but I’m not content; I’m restless and it’s showing.
Whats the matter? His voice is generous, he sets down his phone and puts his hand on my thigh. I meet his eyes. Nothing’s wrong, just a long week. His fingers knead my thigh and he watches me for a moment. What do you need? I look down, blushing, knowing what he means, what he’s making me say. Continue reading “Begging”
The record circles under her hand, steady revolutions, glossy vinyl spinning. The speakers crackle as her fingertips drop the needle. It catches the groove and rides. Slowly the room fills with sound. Miles Davis, Blue in Green, 1959, a mournful ballad; both visceral and cerebral. Continue reading “African Violet – Part 1”
And then, as if no time had been lost, there they were.
Brow to brow, breathless, fingertips on fire, flanks rippling with anticipation of touch, each weeping, though neither from their eyes, forming an unseen haze of desire in the air between them.
Nostalgia and imagination swirled from their hushed lips:
You smell like sugar
You feel like heaven
Soft smiles and burning eyes, their resistance wearing thin. Risk, reward, adventure, pain, endless wanting, reckless waiting.
You feel like home
You taste like sin