Month: December 2009

pocket aces

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.”

passage of wings

when your breath catches
I imagine a butterfly
caught
in your throat.

and if I listen closely
perhaps
I will hear it
flu t t er
against
your
pulse

I always thought we would run out of rain before we ran out of words

My day was quiet; books read to the sound of rain and snow, writing to the soft strains of Tchaikovsky and Mozart.

But my thoughts were not always on the words in front of me.

There are times that the lines of desire drew my mind’s eye to possibilities.

And there, I found you.

A room lit only by the light reflected off snow and skin; hips, found under a thin veil of clothing.

I think of you utterly still.

A flash of teeth in the dark.

The top of shoulders, of spine; fingers parted, pressing against your stomach as a litany of kisses is pressed into your skin.

This is patience in need,

Because I don’t expect you to be still forever.

petals

Today, I have a taste for the beautiful and frail; the iron within the rose; the drop of blood when pricked by the artful thorn. No rose is so defenseless.

I would collect the petals in my hands only to say I held them, once.

the wicked angel

There is a walled garden, long overgrown; the stone fountains are silent, and green vines travel the course where water once ran. The flowers of the garden are wild, bright, and ferocious.

It is an untouched garden, a beautiful, forgotten, place, and it is here that lost angels spend their time.

Including the wicked angel, who visits the garden alone; she is a lost angel, but it was by choice.

She comes to pluck dark purple tulips and orange carnations, laughing dandelions and thorn-pricked roses, taking them all and weaving them into her hair.

Wherever she goes, she wants to leave flower petals in her wake.

Her wickedness is not born of cruelty; she spreads wickedness as others share love. She invites decadence. She inspires devilry. She dances naked outside windows, in the snow, and leaves teardrops in the drinks of the lonely. She joins silhouettes of lovers and the shadow puppets their lovemaking leaves upon the wall.

She kisses the wrist of a woman dreaming of yesterday’s regrets, runs fingers down the spine of a young man in an elevator until his shivers make him gasp.

She reminds them all what it means to be alive.

She is a lost angel, but she wants it that way. To be found, meant being caged, and then she could be wicked no more.