stolen

We laid for hours, silent save for the sound of his fingertips crawling across my skin, from my neck to my shoulder to the small of my back and returning again; and the soft crack of the candle’s flame that would reach periodically into the haze created by his touch and pull me back into reality.

Each time I moved he moved with me, shifting his weight to better bear mine, wrapping his arms tighter to cushion the burning heat pouring off my skin and onto his. I could have died there in that silent moment, that perfectly clear one that we could never have faked, that saw every truth he tried to hide from me slipping out through the pad of his thumb that brushed against my lips as he brought my face up to meet his, and the edges of his fingernails as they branded soft stripes down my back, and the sharp angle of his hips as they centered to align with mine.

I knew what I wanted more than life in that moment, what I would have killed for, sacrificed everything but this moment for: To taste him, to fill myself with him, to melt our bodies together over the flame of that crackling candle so that we could never separate again, to stamp his sculpted chest with the heat thrown from my shaking frame. To move into that moment would be to untangle myself from this one, this silent serenity I didn’t know I desperately needed until I found myself inside it.

Before I knew why, I was stealing my hand back from its place wedged between his skin and mine to trace his collarbone, to memorize the shape of his throat with my fingers, and my wrist fell to rest over his heart. Our pulses beat into one another, matching, syncing like every beautifully timed movement we would soon make. With his heartbeat pressed against the coursing blood through my own veins, my body’s rhythm pacing to meet his, I saw heaven and god and the colors of the moment behind my closed eyelids: a fiery red mimicking my unmanageable need to feel him move into me, a soft yellow wash of calm and lightness, the deep purple of my growing addiction to his hands on me and a dreary medley of somber colors that I knew would soon enough take hold of the moment in its final seconds. 

My hand firm in place on him, I reached with all the strength behind my shoulders up to taste his lips again. That taste would linger on my tongue for the rest of my life; when I’d trace my own lips for the last bit of anything else that couldn’t taste quite as good, I’d be reminded of him by the tang of burnt tobacco, milk chocolate and peppermint.

Our lips met with fury, a hunger that drove me to capture the moment on his lips with my teeth, that drove his free hand to weave into my curls and press me closer with an unrelenting grip at the nape of my neck. My pulse over his heartbeat raced faster and his body’s rhythm quickened to meet mine.

A million things I knew he’d never admit to me, would never say out loud, tell me he felt with every cell of his body, poured into the air in that moment, and I believed them.

broken little things

It’ll be the smallest little thing, like one moment of an earthly autumn wind that scrapes against my collar and reminds me of the exhales you left there when you used to hold me close. Or it’ll be the mention of some lyric, a chord or even one singular note that lifts me from the moment I’m in and drops me down some place that existed years ago where we sat and you strummed and I sang. Or maybe it’ll be a taste so subtle it’ll take me a moment to remember why flavors of singed tobacco, cinnamon and Earl Grey remind me of a new year’s morning so many new year’s eves ago. I’ll be prepared for it to be the sight of your home, my old bed sheets, those shorts I wore on that first day or that blinding neon sign, but it will be those smallest little things that bring me back to you. Those small things will remind me of how, even when I left you — even when you left me — you lurked in secrets and memories and the corners of my mind and in every word I wrote on every page I bent over, shaking and sobbing and bleeding and praying. It will be an immeasurable list of tiny things, invisible to any eye but mine, that cling to years past and feelings forgotten and promises broken, that keep me from forgetting you. Those silly little things will never let me love like I’ve loved you; just as well, I only know how to lose like I have — so many times — lost and then found you.

Spent

My heart is racing my hands are shaking I can't I can't I CAN'T can I? My mind is fading my cheeks are shading is my life wasting? I want to go it hurts to stay when will we stop these games we play? My vision's blurring my words are turning my body's hurting and again you're making me burn. I can't escape these binding ties you've tied so tight then cut, mended, cut once more, knotted together around my waist to pull me close, tied to my throat to make me choke, choke on my words, the words I'd use to break free forever, to leave and never come back and I reach for them now but...silence.

the great smokeout

I took my time to smother the bright amber ember. I knew as soon as its last light dissolved I'd have to get up, get moving, stand up, look in his eyes. I was in no hurry for that, so I savored my final exhale, watching the thick stream of smoke make its way into the darkest night i'd ever seen. I rolled the orange glow into the bed of ashy gray rubbish, careful not to press too hard. But I could only play with fire for so long.

He nudged me, impatient, hurry up with that damned thing, 'til I flinched and curled my chest tighter to my bare knees. Stamping out the last bit of light with shaking fingers with chipped polish, a deep breath would have to give me enough strength.

"Ready?"

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I've been meaning to participate in Magpie Tales for a long time, and for some unknown reason, this photo prompt was the one to finally reign me in. Click over for the image that inspired this and more incredible responses.

winter

a bitter chill waits
for my frozen bones to thaw
to seize them again

traces

You'll hold me tight like you do so well and the weight of your body on mine will release every ounce of wanting. You'll wrap your arms under mine, clasp them behind my back and move me with you. Our bodies will tangle in a way that makes me believe in god and the universe and you and I designed for each other alone. You'll drop the wisdom of a man a hundred years your senior on my lips and let me taste a sentiment I've yet to really know.

Your breath will warm me, head to toe, as your tongue and the tips of your fingers learn every curve and line of my body. You'll trace each trace of flesh and bone and leave a path of lip prints, should ever you lose your way. You'll tease and taunt — like you do so well — and I'll reach for you with trembling hands.

You'll come back to find me just where you left me, clinging to a scream in the depths of my chest. You'll soothe the ache in me with the touch of a man with all the light in the world. Our bodies will spark at every new touch like a live wire, until we are both engulfed in flames. You'll tie me up with twin strings of curiosity and patience and teach me the beauty of both. You'll teach me how to love a man like you and show me how a man could love a girl like me.

Beckon

My heartbeat rings out
to the tune of meant kisses
and the forgotten breaths
you dropped in rows of seven
(I counted)
to dress me.
I could stand ten thousand more.

roundup

shaky breaths reveal
every truth woven into
lies I made for you

--

disguising heartbreak
in lines of five, seven, five
"it's just poetry"

--

I'll cling to mine and
you'll cling harder to yours: the
truth will kill us both

--

unexpected thrill
a heat so sweet my bones chill
I bend to your will

Patience

Grasping at a shrinking sliver of hope
between clenched teeth
and white knuckles...
Save me with a sign
to let me let go

This Strange Space

I'm going to start this post off by pretending there will actually be anyone reading it.

I'll ignore the fact that I haven't posted in months, that the sidebar to the right indicates that this year may as well have not even existed on this blog, that I've lost any right to have readers click through this space.

I'd love to tell you there are valid reasons I haven't posted--I got a new job, I moved to a new apartment, I'm working full-time along with two freelance gigs on the side. All of the above are true, but they aren't reasons for not writing. I managed well over 100 posts last year, most of which while I was still a full-time student screaming toward graduation.

And I have been writing, just not here. Which I've talked about before, and has become something I just feel the need to say, for no logical reason whatsoever.

Of course I miss this space, but I've tossed and turned over what to do with it. Should I drop back in and pretend I never left, foolishly hoping those of you who read last year would still be around now? Call it quits and start over someplace new?

I realize in the grand scheme of things it doesn't really matter. It's my place, I can do what I want. But what I want doesn't seem to come with any formula or give anyone a reason to care. Again, not that it much matters.

I've said it before but I suppose I should say it again, this blog is not a dairy. It's not to update strangers on my life because I can even hear my mother rolling her eyes through the phone when I give her such updates. You don't care, and I don't particularly want the Internet to know what I did this weekend or what I'll be eating for lunch. (And if I do want to relay such news, well, that's what Twitter is for.)

What this blog comes down to is that I love to write and I love to stretch my writing muscles. I love to experiment with words and play with them, twist them around, turn and toss and contort them until they do exactly what I please. Or until they make you uncomfortable. Or happy. Or confused or sad or nervous or unsettled. (Me, too.) So that's what happens here. And I do such manipulation of words in this strange space so as to have my talent measured, my skills judged and my words seen. So your feedback, your equally challenging words, are all I'm ever after.

I miss coming here and feeling like I'm doing something productive with my words--outside of my day job, where all I do is produce precious words for a dime like some literary whore. Is that a bit too dramatic? (If that surprises you, you must be new here. Welcome, and my apologies.)

But, like I said, it's been a busy time. So that's been my excuse, though it's an awful one and one I feel like I make all too often. Can we just pretend that I haven't said that a million times before and forget about my absence and just go back to being lovers together? I think that's all I'd like for now.