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 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.