The rush of thoughts are tempting to stir. Morbidly warm to soak into. Melancholy wafts over like a welcome blanket. I trip, and trip again. I grab my corner and a sinful brew. Staring out and delving within. Diving into the sticky mess. It licks my arms. Gushes between my legs. My mess is a rabid river. I bite it and it bites me back. My mess. I forget I make it. It continues to make me.
The ease and unease of undressing.
Asking, despite a thumping heart.
The ground shaking beauty of being so utterly naked because you love.
A taste never forgotten.
Stubborn. Compulsive. Obsessive.
At our weakest, we know what is home.
Bitter. Scalding. Home.
I have been at her mercy.
She has been at mine.
At the same time.
We deny. But we are home.
We’ll always deny. But we’ll always be home.
A thousand lives forsaken for the taste of her sweet sword. Dripping wet.
I tremble. I surrender.
The tragedy of time. It shapes us and moulds us. It helps us imagine what works and what does not. We believe the imagined fears. We do not believe the imagined desires. We believe the worst. We do not believe the best. And there comes a day when the wretched veil falls away, and we see how we had trapped ourselves into an imaginary pit.
Your place or mine? Do you step away from yours, or do I? Do you share my roof, or do I share yours? We have both built our respective homes. Stout. Proud. Dry concrete. Moist love. How do we undo and rebuild them as one? Or do we leave them behind and build a new one? Easy-peasy.
“Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips.
We should just kiss, like real people do.”
image courtesy: Elvin Shalmiev