Pastels… when i first worked em out.
I never knew her. Nadia. Though the desire filled me to the swollen tendons and the scars and callouses on the ends of my fingers.
I thought about her for a long time in the slow quiet of winter. She was so thin. Her ribs… I could see her ribs through her shirt…
Breath in, bite down with the weight of your fullest self and press your chin against your chest.
And sigh. With me.
In the corners of our sweaty palms, nested in the secret lines twisting bizarre and unique. In the softest inane creak as the bones in our fingers curl. Longing, have you felt it in the tips of your fingers, pulling at the flesh on the inside of your arms? Have you ever felt your muscles jerk – sudden and violent, overwhelmed for a moment by craving? Brutal.
It is a mundane magic – the unconscious smile a tiny curls millimetres of in our suddenly seen and caught, unbalanced and off guard, reflections. As probability collapses. In the trickle of wishes at the back of our necks.
Beatific in hope; a frisson of what may be. If it might oh let it.
It is as magical as the scale, the startling magnitude of hunger as we kiss and kiss and kiss. Lips hot slippery hot against our own. The immersion of lust… a moment etiolated a welcome trick of tongues that in this at least cannot lie – but it ends! – a click of white teeth on stained. Breathless and sudden and sticky. Saliva cooling on our cheeks in the night air.
This magic – a mute spell of touch…the spell of the never-seen small of our backs pressed against the warm belly of a lover.
The lock; the click of that skin pressed so easily with such lazy comfort.