For A.
*
We are here, by the water's edge, a rhythmic blanketing of our feet with ripples that soak in the colors of the sky - violet, watermellon, juicy orange. The air is noisy with birds, insects, distant hums, but it is silent of voice and people. In this moment, it is only your breath I hear, and as my eyes drift from the water and the sky, it is only you I see.
Time feels lazy, the seconds pile one on top of the other slowly, with a deliberate collapse and merge, an elevator of puzzle pieces. I don't know how long we've been sitting here, but each second longer adds a drop into the charged air moving between, among, and through both of us.
Our fingers are touching, more and more entwined, a wild summer vine that tangles and grows just where needed, just where it is supposed to be.
I smile and lean my head against you, cheek to your shoulder, and it feels like the natural state of things, as though the breeze just toppled me into you with such grace and purpose that nothing would dare shift us away from this exact pose.
Except, that is, for passion.
We both feel the electricity beneath our skin and between our thighs escalate at the same time. We lean back without a word spoken, letting our hunger navigate, and the awakening twilight frame us as silhouettes who cannot handle one more moment without tasting and feeling and being and fucking.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
finding autumn
The leafs are beginning their lazy fall, a sassy float from branch to air to ground. As we walk along, the path before us is golden and splotched with red.
Blonde hair tangled between my fingers as I pull you from the bed, up to my thighs, forehead and cheeks rosy and deepening.
The breeze is gentle, a light touch to the skin, a whispered goodbye of summer and a coy hello of autumn, a comfort in the transition, a blanket in the open.
My fingertips down the back of your neck and over your shoulder blades, feathery skin, a moment of moving pause.
The field ahead is a blend of green and earth-tones, youth to age, dew to solidity.
I lie you back down, my body collapsing to yours, labia between your teeth, the weight of our bodies solid and transparent.
The sun begins its decent, an orb, a burst, a magic before its rest, coloring our walk, taking away our breaths in moments of awe and recognized bliss.
When I feel my insides collapse into themselves, I press harder to you, losing all of myself to your mouth, my energy becoming yours, lost together, and then: found.
Blonde hair tangled between my fingers as I pull you from the bed, up to my thighs, forehead and cheeks rosy and deepening.
The breeze is gentle, a light touch to the skin, a whispered goodbye of summer and a coy hello of autumn, a comfort in the transition, a blanket in the open.
My fingertips down the back of your neck and over your shoulder blades, feathery skin, a moment of moving pause.
The field ahead is a blend of green and earth-tones, youth to age, dew to solidity.
I lie you back down, my body collapsing to yours, labia between your teeth, the weight of our bodies solid and transparent.
The sun begins its decent, an orb, a burst, a magic before its rest, coloring our walk, taking away our breaths in moments of awe and recognized bliss.
When I feel my insides collapse into themselves, I press harder to you, losing all of myself to your mouth, my energy becoming yours, lost together, and then: found.
Friday, September 12, 2008
upon awakening
To earn Odd-Goof-ball Status - as promised, for you, J. :)
*
It is here, at this time in-between, when summer is breathing slower, shedding the last of its heat in easy exhales, and autumn is perched waiting, that she experiences something beyond her scope of living, beyond her perception of real. Yet, when it does not make her blush and glance away in embarrassment, the experience creates within her a squirm of unspoken delight, and draws a wetness. She has to hide gasps at random moments throughout the day when the images form clearly within her memory.
It happens like this:
She is in the garden, walking sideways and then forward, sometimes feeling the stepping stones beneath her bare feet, sometimes only moist soil. She is going through thoughts, feelings, impressions of her day thus far, and of the week already behind her. The removal of weeds is being performed by some other version of herself, one that can do things even when she isn't fully present. It is in this murky state that, as she leans forward to grab another green intruider, she tumbles. It happens very quickly, too much so to catch her balance, and she feels the slight roughness of the porch's edge cradle her face roughly, right before she is forced to sleep. She awakens some time later to:
Soil and plants molding around her body, a blurred tree stretched strongly above. Still in the garden, fine, and now to get up. Yet, nothing, as though her muscles are liquid. She doesn't see or feel anything actually restraining her, but her body seems to have no inclination to move. It is then that she catches movement from the corner of her eye.
Every year, as summer clearances wind down, her partner surprises her with a new garden gnome, a silly joke, to add a little sass to the pristine version of flowers and flow she creates.
While she doesn't at first quite believe it, she knows she sees it. The little men and women are moving busily about. And when she feels her dress being raised and her panties being slipped off, she can do nothing except shriek a protest. Some part of her speculates that even if her body reformed again, found its strength, she may still lie there and watch the story unfold, or unravel, or form again and again.
This is where her story gets very hazy because suddenly she only feels. Her world is a shadow to the sensations of one, two, five, seven pairs of miniature hands and mouths grabbing at her, biting, tickling, and certainly teasing. She doesn't know who, what, or how, but when she is entered, stretched, taken, she wants more, and more she is given. And then, after a climax, and another, her body wraps itself in a fulfilled fatigue and dozes into another sleep.
When she awakens again, the afternoon warmth has melted away and the sun is drooping in the sky, hanging by a last thread. She feels the weight of her body, and the normalcy of everything, her vision, her muscles, her thoughts. She sits up, and to her right, one of her gnomes. Or, at least, she assumes it is, though she is sure he was once standing, fully clothed, with a gleeful expression. Now he is bent in her direction, pants dropped, and she is sure he must be smirking a reminder.
She thinks she must better watch her step next time. Perhaps.
*
It is here, at this time in-between, when summer is breathing slower, shedding the last of its heat in easy exhales, and autumn is perched waiting, that she experiences something beyond her scope of living, beyond her perception of real. Yet, when it does not make her blush and glance away in embarrassment, the experience creates within her a squirm of unspoken delight, and draws a wetness. She has to hide gasps at random moments throughout the day when the images form clearly within her memory.
It happens like this:
She is in the garden, walking sideways and then forward, sometimes feeling the stepping stones beneath her bare feet, sometimes only moist soil. She is going through thoughts, feelings, impressions of her day thus far, and of the week already behind her. The removal of weeds is being performed by some other version of herself, one that can do things even when she isn't fully present. It is in this murky state that, as she leans forward to grab another green intruider, she tumbles. It happens very quickly, too much so to catch her balance, and she feels the slight roughness of the porch's edge cradle her face roughly, right before she is forced to sleep. She awakens some time later to:
Soil and plants molding around her body, a blurred tree stretched strongly above. Still in the garden, fine, and now to get up. Yet, nothing, as though her muscles are liquid. She doesn't see or feel anything actually restraining her, but her body seems to have no inclination to move. It is then that she catches movement from the corner of her eye.
Every year, as summer clearances wind down, her partner surprises her with a new garden gnome, a silly joke, to add a little sass to the pristine version of flowers and flow she creates.
While she doesn't at first quite believe it, she knows she sees it. The little men and women are moving busily about. And when she feels her dress being raised and her panties being slipped off, she can do nothing except shriek a protest. Some part of her speculates that even if her body reformed again, found its strength, she may still lie there and watch the story unfold, or unravel, or form again and again.
This is where her story gets very hazy because suddenly she only feels. Her world is a shadow to the sensations of one, two, five, seven pairs of miniature hands and mouths grabbing at her, biting, tickling, and certainly teasing. She doesn't know who, what, or how, but when she is entered, stretched, taken, she wants more, and more she is given. And then, after a climax, and another, her body wraps itself in a fulfilled fatigue and dozes into another sleep.
When she awakens again, the afternoon warmth has melted away and the sun is drooping in the sky, hanging by a last thread. She feels the weight of her body, and the normalcy of everything, her vision, her muscles, her thoughts. She sits up, and to her right, one of her gnomes. Or, at least, she assumes it is, though she is sure he was once standing, fully clothed, with a gleeful expression. Now he is bent in her direction, pants dropped, and she is sure he must be smirking a reminder.
She thinks she must better watch her step next time. Perhaps.
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