Category: Crimson Writ

Some of the most beautiful things are written in the pain born of desire.

You’re like a stained glass window. All the lines of your life have been etched across your soul with a knife so sharp you can only feel it in the passing.

You are here.

You are braille, read in falling touches and flailing rushes and I know I if I am cut in half we can read our futures in the rings, but my bite is worse then my bark and I cannot be a tree so you should be a stone dropped in still waters so we can count the ripples, but you’re not a stone, you are gypsy and vagabond.

You are here.

But never for long.

“I want to watch you drown,” I said.

It was the way you looked up at me, all dark eyes and trust, while my knee pressed against your chest, making it difficult and then impossible to breathe.

It was the way you waited for me.

It made me wonder how far you would go; would you let me hold you under until you had no choice but to press back, your need to breathe outweighing your need to be still?

Would you struggle?

“I want to watch you drown,” I said, and you said nothing in return.

But you reached for my hands and placed them around your throat.

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.

~ 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.

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.”