| Hair the color of November nights. A frame of dark jeweled eyes, glittery with tears hot and falling. She spent the day crawling, inside herself, pulling bits and pieces apart. Remembering a love not yet met, grieving the loss before knowing him, this memory... of years unfold, of times untold. Those waves left crashing upon cold shores, the fields where silk seeds bloom in Fall. Willow trees around the bay moaning on those nights, of a time her lover lay and held her tight. The silence bites up, it creeps. The house is empty, past dusk, it sets. Darkness spreads, the corridors compress. But the doors to this house are all wide open. The graves outside that hold the dead holy. She is alone tonight, for once whole and not lonely. She plays back the memories of bodies rejoicing in last Autumn's heat. Aching for the scent of her lover next year, when the unborn leaves have turned flame to fall. She plays back a video of lovemaking and another of song. The man sings of heartache, the lovers bend, soluble like molecules that were meant only to bind. Their moans are intoxicated by the wave of instrumental song. The music pools around their heat and drifts over their nakedness with love. With heartbreak. And it is the sadness and the passion that she closes her eyes to. Tears falling, lips quivering in moans of wanting release, she weeps. She weeps for the green leaves of her passion's past. The petals of innocent flowers that bees hovered around, drunk in nature's Ecstasy. The art of extraction, the alchemy of love into honey. The petals but one day had to fall, but never so soon. It was only the year before she let two parts of her heart go. What was left was a shell of the year to follow... and the song moans out as the lovers on film do. She is dying with love and pain inside. Feeling her body, hot against white sheets. There is new blood, not yet fallen from her grace and her mouth swollen and wet from crying this hard. Deeper and tighter she holds her sex against her palms, rejoicing in the man's pleas of love making art. The familiarity of this pulse quickening. Of this beat. Breathing. The lovers mold themselves into one, and smile, but the girl does not see this between the shield of glistening eyes. Tears fall past her cheek as she turns her head to look at the screen. Do you remember this position he held you in, heartbeat to heartbeat, gazing up at your luminous face? Lips taut, back arched in complete offering. You gave him everything. And he took it all and left nothing for this year's Fall. His mouth hovers over the woman's breast for a moment, and she clings to him, moving rhythmically, eyes shut tightly now. She's close. He takes her into his mouth, deep, even deeper still as if to reach her heart. Light to dark. Up or down. Love and Hate. Known to unknown, we carry on. The swelling, the flux. The constant in the inconstant. We bask in and grieve the Change. The scent of sex, the music of it. The memory of someone not yet met, who brings your body back to life and clears the cobwebs of a neglected heart. Yes, is the rhythm that keeps us going, that carries us to climax. And the breath quickens, as do her movements, she is panting and the tears for a moment have stopped. In that space of self effacing grace, her head thrusts back and her body trembles transfixed release. Prayer, grieving glory, all things buried in an instant seized. She cries for the loss of a lover unmet, she mourns the love lost last fall. I feel you wither in soft temperament and beg either for nothing or for it all. And I cannot tell you yet how to soothe the burns of a human heart. This love is like a fever, and when it comes, it does not yield until we have wept and bled to make it Art. |
1 Comment
Junyan
3/19/2015 06:18:47 am
I read this one out loud. This song came to mind.
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