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| Solitary confinement.I am shackled in the corner where light does not come through. I see the locked window in the cloaked room but it's so far away. Behind the glass, his silhouette waits for me. I reach out to touch his face through the window pane but my chains jingle, reminding me why I am here. I close the drapes and turn away to watch the story-telling shadows dance around me.
In my pocket the spare key to my locks sits heavy. | | |
| A lovely mess."I promise to show you the world," he whispers fervently into my ear as he pulls me in, away from the loud chattering and laughter of everyone around us- "I'll take you to places you've never been," As if him being my only real concern werent already the case when he is around.
I smile because I'm sure he wont remember this come tomorrow morning but the thought is pleasant and it warms my heart. I lean closer and plant a kiss on his cheek. I catch the gaze of a friend as I lift my head away from his face. I smile sheepishly but duck my head in for another of his sloppy kisses. She tells me later my eyes light up when I talk about him, that when he's around everything else about me is brighter and I look like I'm floating.
Sitting between us sways our entwined hands. I feel his thumb gently rubbing the webbing between my fingers and little frissons shoot down to my toes. He has no idea what havoc he is creating but I look up towards him and listen to him adamantly swearing upon his soul he'll show me things I've never seen, that we'll do things together for as long as we shall live. I confess the location wouldnt matter as long as he is alongside me, but I'm sure he doesnt hear me. Which is okay because I think he already knows.
His hand moves up to my face and he pulls me in, a bit too roughly, to kiss my forehead- messing up an hour's worth of makeup application along the way. His hand moves up to my hair and rubs my head and continues to he rant on about how much he loves me. I'm sure I look like a complete mess now but I know I'm smiling like a fool as I lean into his embrace and listen to his confessions.
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| I wish I was an artist.So you could see the way your name is painted in acrylics on her canvas; watch the tail of the 'I' drip down her chest and follow the curve of her breast. See the dark that is your light slip under her skin until the whispers of your promises throb in her veins, constant.
Feel the satin of the sheets beneath her, and the slick of sweat drip down your back. Watch the 'I' trail its way down the length of her stomach to pool in her bellybutton. Dip your fingers in the remainder and claim all that is yours with paint that smells faintly of you.
See her feathered eyelids flutter shut and remember her mane of hair splattered across the pillows; let the curve of her body rest along side you, and appreciate the masterpiece you've created spell out your name in the sigh that is her last thought as she drifts to sleep.
Y O U R S. | | |
| I am not a gambler.You've been saving up all you can for as long as you can take it until you're good and ready to gamble it all away. Now you're at the table, the dealer's smiling at you, laughing with (or maybe at) you, and brand new chips sit eagerly on your side. The lights twinkle at you, you're itching to conquer, and there are beautiful people everywhere.
You win enough hands to keep you at the table, to keep you placing bets and downing more alcohol for courage. You're building and building and building up huge stacks of chips. And you get more and more confident (or drunk). Then you think you have the hand- the one that'll take it all. You try not to get too excited because then everyone around you will back down. So you play it cool. And play and you play and you play until you're ready to burst.
But sometimes you show your best hand, and you still lose. You go all in, risk everything you've got, and still come up short. At some point you have to either realize what you're putting in isnt worth what you're getting out of it or you keep at it until you run out of chips. Most people run out of chips.
Don't take out your credit cards, dont write any IOUs. You're outta money. The vacation is over. Sometimes you win and sometimes you lose. The casino will still be there when you're ready to play again. Maybe not at the same table, and maybe not the same game, but eventually you'll be ready to play again. And some day, you'll hit your jackpot.
So am I outta hands? Am I outta chips? Have I lost? Am I too fucking drunk now that I should just pack up and go home before I do myself and others any more damage? All very good questions. | | |
| Always."You dont write anymore," I hear him whisper in the darkness.
I can barely make out the shape of his face but I know his eyes are on me. He's always watching me when we're together, as if he cant quite figure me out. So intently, I worry he'll see right through me. Then he tilts his head quizzically as if he's still curious. I feel his hands restless between us and gently place it upon my heart so he can feel it beat.
His voice gets a little louder, "I dont know what's going on in there."
I give his hand a squeeze and plant a kiss on his forehead. Shutting my eyes, I rest my head upon his chest. I can hear his heart race but I dont say anything. I let my finger mindlessly wander all over the other side of his chest.
"How come you dont write me anymore?"
But I always write him- for him, to him;
I etch it into his skin when I trail my fingers up and down the familiar curve of his back. I gently rub it into the spaces between his fingers when mine no longer occupy the spaces. I whisper the words he wants to hear all over his face with my lips, letting my eyes make promises my heart swears by. And in the dark when nothing is visible but the scream of nails dragging down slickened skin, when the spaces between seem too far and close is never close enough, iron-hot flames singe the lines of our story into the stones we call our hearts.
Seconds before consciousness loses to sleep, I catch our shadows meld into one upon the wall, as one last sigh escapes into the night- to echo long after we are but memories written in his favorite story book.
Maybe someday he'll be able to read it.
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