I’ve rediscovered the word lascivious: given to or expressing lust.
You inspire the elegance of the enforced stop; the tragic demise; the regulation of self, mirrored in the eyes of the person clutching your throat for dear life.
I am not yet ready to devour.
Although, I found myself thinking of you on my patio, in your dress, your leg over my shoulder.
You have a pulse that runs along the inside of of your thigh, the femoral pulse.
Right, here.
This the pattern of life; a short breath here, staccato in heat and intent, and now the longer breath, the soft blue of summer sky. We breathe, a biological clock.
Pulse; the low steady rhythm that dictates our thoughts, our hungers; directs our instincts and our habits.
There are days I want to reach into the sinews of my arm and find my pulse, grip it tight, long strands of vibrant red wound about my knuckles; or crack open my rib cage, thrust my hand deep into my lungs and squeeze until I have captured all of my breath in the firm grip of my fist so I can count the number I have left.
I imagine my fingers openings, slowly, and each white-breath fluttering upwards.
(I think I have a more cunning wolf inside me today.)
When a story is being told, it is often best read in one cohesive form.
I’ve moved the Scarlet Letter postings to a separate page, and they can be read here:
Overhead while waiting for Rose Red to arrive at the Museum of Natural History (determined not to be late for a third time, she guaranteed that no other outcome was possible).
Little boy: “The buses take a little long time.”
Mother: “Little long?”
Little boy: “Yes…they take a long time to get here. Not a while though, just a little.”
His logic, I have to say, is impeccable.