Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Arrondissement Unknown: Paris Equinox
A clock is ticking.
I see your body’s outline before the hotel window. The traffic has thinned with the hour. A breeze curls the curtains, and slides across my skin like a ghostly lover.
(The only perfect love, in life or fiction, is love denied.)
Already naked, you approach the bed. Your eyes are everywhere. The part of me that’s been waiting so long for this—for us—falls upon their sword.
I am reborn into eggshell arms.
Are my breasts too small? Thighs too plump? My hips too too?
(The only perfect love, in life or fiction, is)
Your touch cracks my fear. You stroke my thighs with a blind man’s fingers. Flesh grips viscera, claws air. Your lips descend, testing a knee’s hairpin trigger. My toes twist around your lower spine. My mouth opens, chin tipping high.
Shadows, shadows everywhere.
Seconds s p r e a d
(The only perfect love, in)
Your mouth searches higher, slowing. Heat flows like a kerosene sin. Your tongue slips between my—
I clutch at sheets, your hands pinning wrists. My back arches, breasts flatten. Tears squeeze from blue, blue irises. Black-hole mouths explode into
(The only love)
I cry your
You hear me.
I push deeper inside you.
Your hair falls around, shielding my face from the window’s cold light. Your knees spread wider, hips grinding harder.
And, softer yet.
I can still taste you. My mouth is filled with your taste. Your lips find mine.
(touch what is mine)
Your voice breathes into my ear, baptizing me not with water, but fire. An always, surrendering fire. My nails clutch at your hips, digging you deeper into me until we both touch the heart of the pain that was always there, if hiding.
Your scream is a silent shudder.
(touch what is not mine)
I’m choking on your hair. Your long, lovely hair. The air leaks from me, and my eyes smear over with
(I touch what is not mine)
I push you up. Gently. Away from me. You keep me locked inside. My fingers somewhere lose your skin. I look past your shoulder, into a hotel mirror. It reflects the white of your back in a Paris dreamlight.
I do not recognize the eyes staring back at me.
I do not
(I cannot touch what is not mine.
The clock is ticking.