the rose and its thorns

The rose is such a contained flower, yet with a murmur of something else, a rumor of wild within its petals, abandonment pressed into its elegance, heat within its romance.

The stem twirls between her fingers, slowly, a moving meditation of pause and breath. She looks up at him, amusement in her eyes and sass in her lips. "A rose, really? Am I supposed to be impressed by its sheer originality?" A laugh in her throat, chestnut hair swinging over her shoulders in feigned distraught, she turns and begins walking, rose dipping along, a casual grasp, a rigid kite in the air by her thigh.

It is twilight, the moment when everything stands as a silhouette, a memory or hint or suggestion of its former self and future being, deep colors scattered on the horizon, like china silks in a rushed market captured as silence in paused film. She can hear his steps crunch into the path a few feet behind, leafs and gravel dancing in bumps and clinches, whispers and gasps. She bites at her lower lip as she glances over her shoulder. Eyes connect, sand and ocean, and she says, "Think you can catch me?"

Not awaiting an answer, she begins to run, air pressing to her face, white dress twisting around her thighs, strap slipping to the edges of her shoulder, rose still in hand, looking more awakened and electric than when purchased in the posh shop across the street from the coffee house in the heart of town.

Along the path, past random faces taking late night strolls, through trees, against wild brush with stray yellow flowers, among bursts of birds and lonely butterflies, into damp soil and deepening night. Awakened breaths settle into her chest, a blush to her cheeks and breasts, and then an abrupt halt as the water's edge suddenly shimmies at her feet. No where else to run, a world's end, but also a beginning.

He has been there, running at her heels, almost tasting her sweat and feeling her motion, through the minutes, the rise and fall of scenery, the dashing and breathless slipping along, away from crowds and into silence. And, now, finally.

He grabs her waist, hands firm on each side, and presses warm panting lips to the base of her neck, cranio-sacral therapy for lovers. His fingers dig in, dough for kneading, lips opening to teeth. His hold and mouth sink in harder, her breath is both a death and life, held and bursting. One hand down, he takes the rose from her, brushes the soft petals to her calf, a dainty and determined march upward that teases and pretends, before a twist of hand makes the stem claw her inner thigh, thorns to flesh, red on white, and the blossom crashes into her, morning dew settling into its folds hours before daybreak.

He presses her forward, a longing collapse, palms to mud, knees into puddles, clothes a smear of brown and speckled red, and says, "Yes and yes." Her lips press together and she rolls her eyes, playful bemusement. "You've always been one to answer questions and meet challenges. But really, who cares, just fuck me."

And, dress pushed aside, feathery darkness clumping around them, he does.

*

Copyright Tasha M, May 2008.