Your hands are dirty, I say. You probably think I don’t like that much. It is the stains from work yesterday, you say. Like the stains in your eyes – I think but do not say as under them, though I do not understand why, I shake. Not outwardly so you would notice, I cover that with bravado. They do burn don’t they? They appear to, your eyes I mean. Do you burn? I think I do.
Yes, it is your hands more than your eyes, virile and testing my will, my resilience to being the unseen. I want to scream at you to stop. Don’t you know how hard it is to be near you and not be touched like those hands would touch me… wanting me… distracting me from nothing and everything? Paying me attention.
Urging me to allow myself to be wanted, to want.
The knots I have tied around my desire with sleeplessness and duty rip apart and explode into a million fibres coursing through my flesh. You are my undoing. I no longer needed my hollow full, nor cold skin warmed, in these days and nights ahead, and now you have messed with that. Mess with me then. Place your youthful hand around my arm and tell me you want me. Tear away my wall with rock hard flesh up against this barrier I have placed between myself and pleasure, and force yourself through my emptiness. Persist for my eyes to stare like a stunned deer into yours making me a young girl blushing; being touched inside for the first time. Make me feel, something, anything, with streams of joy journeying to the spark of life.
But, I won’t mess with you. In me there is no new life, no joyful journey anticipated. No place for you on my bosom to rest your head and listen to a heartbeat. No place in my womb for you to feel the movement of your future. All you will find here is need, greedy desire, not of a soft petalled flower soaking up the sun but a dusk drawn, half starved lioness, tearing at her kill to feed her cubs before self.
Now let me eat.
You fall in, your hand pulling on mine.
Crashing through the glass walls between our eyes.
Shards lay under where we walk, shells along the shore piercing flesh until tears form the waves that caress mornings cold coarse sand. We stand, you and I, hand in hand walk a mile or two or three more than we should. We swim naked, the scars of aeons beneath our layers removed. Lay down in a breeze just close enough for the tips of our fingers to touch; far enough for our sight to be obscured by the dazzling sun when looking face to face. We are only breath.
My breath, just like those waves further out where we dared to drift, is the silence of your soul roaring in its life just there on the other side of where white horses reach there peak. You went on. In my mind I saw you smile as your ass moved side to side until the water covered it’s curve caressing you as I wished just once to do, and carrying you. You faced me, laughed, sang, thanked me for my time. This time, I saw your smile no longer hidden.
In you is the grain of my canvas, covered in my sunset painting, drowned out of my picture alluding to delusions at midnight. Eluding your spell, an illusion; You under the that spell of life pushing, pulling, there. There, just like you imagined. There, just like you wanted. There, in the deep blue sea. The sea I told you would spit you out one day when she had swallowed you whole; when she was done with you. When you were; when you and she knew her roar could no longer devour you. Here onto now warm sand as the sun begins to fade. Back on the shore, walk across this piece of earth weathered to fine grains? Touch the fingers of the old bones softer now, still, like the golden sand upon which you would stand?
Take them. Place them into the water and let them taste where you have been? Stand again for a moment, naked, up to your waist in the water. There, at sunset in the water I will hold every part of who you are and have become. There, until the sea is no longer tears.