He waits until she’s asleep to begin.
Her hand is pressed against her chest as her eyelids flicker. She’s right up against the wall, reaching away from him even in her sleep. He told her this, once, and she ran her hand slowly across her brow, and looked away. She didn’t answer.
He rests his head on her pillow and draws in close. In a voice low and longing, he whispers to her.
She stirs. She doesn’t wake but turns, her hand fluttering against her breast. She dreams of her heart, rich reds swirling as blood spirals through her, as the throbbing beats a hunger thump deep inside. Her breath catches as she inhales. Her mouth parts slightly.
He leans closer, and whispers to her.
She smiles into the curve of her shoulder. She dreams of the inky depths, the water rolling against her skin in swells of gentle seduction. Her feet stretch and point, turning over and over as the salt water holds her close. There are shadows in the depths below her. She doesn’t swim away from them.
He gazes at the streetlight falling across her face, and whispers to her.
Her head tilts to one side, and strands of hair tumble across her neck. She dreams of a song so delicate it floats in front of her, spun sugar held up by the breeze, of crooned words that travel down her spine like a shudder. A moan so soft he barely catches it drifts from her lips.
He slides the strands of hair from her neck, and whispers to her.
Her fingers uncurl against her chest as she murmurs. He watches her hand open, and in her sleep she stretches for something just out of reach.
I’m a lucid dreamer.
I’m often aware that I’m dreaming, and can manipulate events to suit me: grow wings to escape danger, bring rain on a sweltering night, sprout fangs to meet my monsters with a snarl.
Occasionally though, I’d like to just let go and relinquish this need for control….give the reins over to something else.
Who knows where that could take me.
For a visual interpretation of this piece, take a look at the wonderful Mel Brackstone’s photo here…. collaborations are so enjoyable….