Fantasy I

11.18.02

There are times that I would touch you, even as distant as you are. When I would find your eyes in the twilight, the half light of candles, breathing secrets and dreams, and reach out with soft hands and touch you. Strip you of your clothes and your insecurities, cut them away with firm lips and a sharp tongue, and listen to them slither past you thighs and onto the floor. I would leave you shining in the moonlight, silk skin and confidence. Naked and brilliant in the warm breeze that tickles you like ten fingers from the open window behind you.

I would smile at you and you would become weightless, the corners of my mouth cutting away the strings the hold you to the earth. The pressure of the pulling slipping from your skin leaving your bare feet breathless with sudden lightening, tiny gasps from each toe, heels separating from the cool squares of marble beneath them, unsticking with kisses, toes touching lightly as you float just above me.

But I would not let you go so easily. As you began to fall backwards, surrendering to the sweet softness of the air and idle hand of the planet, I would hold you back, pull you down, and kiss south along the soft skin of your belly until your eyes opened and you remembered why you were alive.

The pity of being an angel is that their feet never touch the ground.

And you would float softly back to earth, feet landing neatly between mine, and your eyes would open as if you had just woken up from seeing to find yourself in a dream. Your hands would slide inside my skin, untie me from my clothes, and pull the thin string of will from inside the threads of my spine. Destroyed, I would fall featherlike into the open hand of the bed behind me, naked and breathing, calm as seven silent seas.

And you would fall in next to me and we would watch each other, children’s eyes wide, unraveling the riddles in our smiles and our skin with patience and the singular sensation of a curious finger, listening to the brail of bodies in the darkness.

And fingers finding lips, we might kiss. A single thread tightening two loose seams, securing them firmly as the string pulls itself taut, and ties itself off. The sensation of impact would touch and ripple through the rest of us, awakening the limbs still so quiet by our sides. Eyes blind, we would slide across each other, breath giving way to skin, skin giving way to bone, bone giving way to blood. The pressure of the thread sewing our bodies together, until there might be nothing but moonlight between us.

I would be inside you, and you would surround me. An island in your sea.

And it would not be world shattering or earth shaking. The planets would stay in neat alignment as we moved slowly together in the darkness. You would not groan from splitting, but sigh from completion. And I would not grunt from tightness but smile in the strength of your grasp.

We would close our eyes, seeing instead with our skin.

The moment would rise, as soft as sunlight, peak and pierce us with its brilliance. A simultaneous submission to the will of the flesh. The warm rush of release from my center inward then outward, the exhalation of a single liquid breath, and the broken stutter of ecstasy out across your thighs to the tips of your skin so that sensation is suddenly sharp. A moment of powerful clarity and a stiffening of the skin.

The moment would pass and leave us sapped and sated. Laying next to one another too full for words, soaking up the silence, and remembering how to speak. When the spirit passed and there was space enough to move, I might roll over and slide my hand along your side, like a wave breaking down your body. You would close your eyes and smile. The moon would disappear into the sea.