It's snowing outside.
I lay in bed waiting. I'm always waiting now. Distance and time are an endless leap of faith.
I image them gripping my hips: I wonder if I would say slowly or move them faster. I wonder if they would roll me on my stomach, gently or roughly. When I cry out would they turn me over, kiss me hard so I could feel their teeth, their pulse, like a small heart in their tongue, the palms of their hands...would they lift my hips and press me to their mouth. I closed my eyes and look at their face in my memory, imagine them fucking me in the mud in a dress as white as communion. I imagine dirt smeared on their hands.
The sky white as the sheets on their bed, a landscape for a brutal coupling. A knife, a fist, a bite mark in the skin, a knot of fingers shoved deep in a mouth, a handful of dirt.
Love is a story that can't be resolved, only unraveled. Like a myth love turns it on itself, layers of transparency to filter knowing.
Does love ever cease to be something beautiful, a faithful aspect of the heart? even when it hurls you off centre, off-axis, into an obsessive void? Love is a story that can't be resolved only unraveled. Like a myth love turns it on itself, layers of transparency to filter knowing. I burn in white bedsheets, a pale ember in a snow bank, I smother in my wetness.
A thousand miles away and I cannot help but think of of them. No, not really them, but what lived between us, a life that seemed to spread and sprawl its warmth over me as I touch myself, their voice whispering in my ear, an echo across the distance.
don't you come, don't you fucking dare...
I thrust myself into my hand, hand sweeping in three small revolutions, attempting, careful, and again their voice
Don't you dare...
I almost. I don't.
A little shiver of sensation, a thread I could pull, an edge, a knife
a knife, an edge...
I pull my hand away
the leap is shattered, and I gather myself,
get ready to leap again...