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—

My life needs context, not meaning.

Moments of clarity, when we step back from ourselves and see the mechanisms of our lives; the pattern of behavior, the needs that inform our decisions.

The ironic truth is that this understanding doesn’t make our actions any more effective.

But it can make use self-conscious.

We become awkward, our knowledge making us move out of step.

We slip away from the rhythm and rut of the life around us when our natural inclination is to fall in line; the people about us sense the change, adjusting course to avoid anything that threatens the routine they’ve so carefully crafted to insulate themselves.

Still.

Still, all in all, I’ll take perspective over comfort.

You were a tangle.

I brought you a rose; while you undressed, I plucked it clean, letting the petals settle at the end of my fingertips like curled, satin promises.

Waiting, almost patiently.

Thought of you on black sheets, tousled hair and pale skin.

Enough.

I stood, my hand sliding into the back of your hair, anchoring you in place. You were undressed in parts and in in my grasp you were not-quite-still. Amused, I ran my fingers along the inside of your thigh, drawing the whisper of black silk to bare you completely.

I lowered you to your knees.

I have a tin box filled with paper airplanes. It once held Christmas cookies sent by a muse of mine.

This is the direct result of the fact that, having not received a new desk calendar over the the holidays, I was forced to find one myself. This is never a particularly good idea, because given a choice, I am not going to be content with a calendar of Dilbert cartoons, inspirational sayings, Irish castles, LOLcats, or fun facts.

I find myself drawn to items that challenge.

Which is how I ended up with a calendar made of daily airplane origami.

Each day reveals a new design and every morning has seen the creation of a new plane. Some are designed for flying, kite-shaped gliders and sharp arrow-headed fliers. Others are merely ornamental, taking on the shape of intricate spacecraft and realistic bi-planes. There are designs beautifully elegant in their simplicity and complicated blueprints with tailwings and rudders.

They all go into the tin box.

We are mid-way through February, and the box is already full.

So here is my question.

What do you do with a tin filled with colorful paper airplanes?

~ words and picture of and by an artist friend.

It started like the roar of a steam engine, slowly climbing the curves of an imposing mountain.

Wrestling gravity.

Waiting, wanting, yearning for the descent.

The sweet enveloping green of the valley below.

Faster.

Determined.

The movement of your fingers in flawless unison with the deep groans that were my last words.

Echoing, as if the sky were a closed arena.

Our bodies bare for some unknown audience.

Fireworks.

A pull, a thrust, a perfect explosion.

She tasted like cloves and cinnamon, the last drag on a cigarette, and the opening notes to a song I’d lost to my youth.

She was iridescent and I couldn’t put her out, not even in my dreams.

This winter has been missing something.

I realized, yesterday, it’s the cold; To accommodate guests, I’ve had my heater running for the last couple of months.

Last night, I shut off the heat.

And I slept as if tomorrow was a cool blue dream.

We can measure our lives by days.

Or we can measure it by moments.

I know which I choose.

I wanted to pet you
like you were something familiar

but your hip sway
and the curved planes of sinuous retreat
that mark the passage of your ecstasy
were too sweet
a distraction

instead
I fell beside you
on the bed
and learned you
the way the birds
learn to sing
and books learn
to be still

intimate without thought

you make me want
Sunday
morning
pancakes.

With her back to me, she nestled like a slow S against my body.

“You’ll have to trust me.”

“Ok.”

I rested my hand on top of hers and guided it to her stomach, a low plane of soft warmth that was as smooth as a river. Slowly – slowly – slowly – our hands slid under the edge of her jeans and then deeper, pressing along the delta of her pelvis, fingers curling into a greeting, a beckoning; my intent ghosted hers; hands moving in unison, we pressed inside.

Back arched, her first real breath was an escape. She moved with easy grace; I caught her free hand, capturing it against her hip, fingers entwined tight. The only skin I could taste was at the alcove of her throat and shoulder; my breath was warm and in pace with our hands. I felt her low shudder like an iceberg.

…

“You said I am an iceberg.”

“No, I said you shuddered like an iceberg.”

“Sometimes my shudder is all there is.”