Before the evenfall had made its claims and had its wanton ways. Even before the evening had set the tone before the fickle moon had wept away the mood. Even before night had teased the bruises from the day; even before all the colors in your world lost their shyness.

Even before the specks of drunken stars could spill their secrets all that wasn’t theirs to give. Even before the night could fall properly and bestow its veil of freedom, I was seeking you out. Though you weren’t hiding from me.

Far from it.

I sought you out in the middle of the middle of that darkened corridor. The hallway leading up to your rabbit-hole from whence you came and where you were lingering right now safe and secure in your make-believe holdfast, right there, your stone citadel where you dole out your own feminine generosity generously.

Where you dithered and waited, sodden so so sodden with your own thoughts. Your thoughts smiling back at you. But you weren’t looking.

Hitherto, you have only loved me in the fever of my dreams, in fever dreams, where we copulated the nightmares we happened to share, where we exchanged the sins of our past. I sought you out while stuck in the middle of your mess, a murky midden although silken in nature, where squelching through the morass I saw you coming for me. I tried to run toward you, I tried running away, but I couldn’t move.

You were coming to me. I was looking for you, seeking you out with an ache of a thousand suns that were dying. What’s more beautiful than the death of a star? What’s more satisfying than the utter destruction of something you love.

I didn’t stalk you here, wherever this here is, nor did I stumble upon you. But rather you were opening up before me like a single piece of offering lying supine on a wooden altar placed neatly in a dell encircled by dark swaying trees, solely for my false awakening.

A single raven which is a singular thought flitted across the stodgy sky blotting out the burning sun; the rook glistened with madness, cawing away its assent madly maddened by the blatant display of mutual want. All madness. Everything was. Is.

The flute of your flesh wrung out trilling notes, the warble of your skin jerked me forward misleading me ever so gloriously to your door. The hues of your breaths finally led me here to stand before this frayed door. I shook my head. It wasn’t the allure of sucking and licking and being sucked or licked in return of auroras by you in a delighted give and take that had pulled me to this bathroom door.

It was and always will be. Your scent. The promise of your smell lured me here. It had brought me face to face with you and you without a face but you somehow still have your lips, full, filthy and real.

I twist the knob, feeling something wring inside your chest making you breathless. Even at the threshold I clearly felt that. Pushing the door inward, walking inside I decided to cash in your raincheck, believing against everything in spite of the Evidence of Marilyn Mason, needing you to make good on your unkept promise. I went through yet another filigreed door for you. Just for you, I came here. I came for you. Would you do the same? Come for me? To me? I had come looking for all your sounds, but I’ll stay for your songs, at least one of them I can do. Damndest things they are. They damn you more than me. I have come undone looking for you. But I will make you come undone too. Promises to discard. Scents to be eaten, much too much to be eaten.

I leave the door slightly ajar behind me, not caring if everyone else watches; let them bear witness to all things strange and aqueous. I’ll give the shadows of Others something to feast their eyes on. I’ll burn their fucking eyes out.

You in all of you didn’t even stir when I enter into your flowery abode; a floweret hell of your own doing, but you will more than stir when I will enter again and none too gentle an entry that will be. I promise. Looking for an introitus to your molten soul, I will enter your soul, melt the damn thing and then will imbibe your chi, drink it slowly and enjoy you fade away. You don’t look up from what you are doing, too busy unwrapping everything inside your weary head whilst the universe is busy unwrapping you; turning you round and round, unrolling you from your purple cocoon until you come out of it like a butterfly from its chrysalis, but wait- you are a moth and a broken one at that. A mass of satin and broken white skin.

Though I must allow that you look at ease within your surroundings, resplendent even in your belated authority, shimmering with a chilled ole power of yore, of some forgotten folklore. I see that you have converted my bathroom into a dwelling of your own, what was mine is yours now, the stamp of your approval and permanence is everywhere on every nook and cranny just as it is on my heart. The gray tiles, the heated floor in the process of being trodden by your feet look like sluggish gray bricks of your keep. All this gay grayness is a kingdom of Nightlands and it looks like you are its undisputed Queen. But am I your king? Or am I a King reigning over nothing as you stand under the rain of nothing.

Ah, there you are standing under the shower, palm up one hand resting on the tiles, another one is in your hair like you have quite forgotten your own existence, your eyes are screwed shut tight yet you are breathing solidly under the falling water. You are utterly disrobed from reality, all your fears nicked off; your personal arrears dealt with paid in full, every account settled with, all misgivings sorted out. Denuded of your burden; you are beautiful in your emptiness. Therefore, I find you like this standing there confident and content, as naked as when your thoughts were born, not even wearing a sheer shift of caution now. You stand under the stream, professing an ancient pleasure, trembling with it rather. That very pleasure almost in my face is so cruel in its attainability. Taunting me with its simplicity, with the pure logic of it.

The basic equation of it is as haunting as your memory. A pity I can’t slice off this blade of memory and make it fall like all the flowers I felled for you. For the blade of memory has a very sharp edge. Funny thing, this blade has a habit of becoming very dull when it’s used for gouging out the thumping errant heart, thus leaving that whole treat rather a clumsy endeavor. The funnier thing though, it livens up when using it to sever anything familiar.
The pitter-patter of the running water, the steam hanging in the air like stillborn emotions, the tiny wet droplets in odd places is the scene I am beholding now almost unwittingly, smeared in all the wrong places the gleaming beads do have a rather bate look to them. But I am looking at you, that’s all I can do, what I am wont to do; under the fizzy cataract of the falling water you are so graceful, so fucking beautiful. I watch you fade in and out of water with the beat of the flow. The water gushing forth from the showerhead engulfs you, completely justifying my jealousy. Your body throbbed with its watery music, the torrential rush that’s spewing forth from the nozzle is a soft summons to a freefall of my own. I find myself moving in your direction despite what the small gods of smaller yesterday had planned for us. My feet moving for you and your hitched breathing reeling me in making me move toward the open and unlocked shower-box.

Heading toward my own sunset that was dripping with honey, I can only nurture my hope and entertain the only folly that you want me in all my entirety, the sum total that is me. I strut on to where you are almost waiting for me. Drenched in golden vulnerability, you look palatable in your possibilities. It is no longer a sin to want you; it is quite a sin now to deny you. I step inside your inner fold, a dell of your own. Leaning past you to turn off the shower, I catch the spray from the dwindling stream, my face shone with it as I lean back past you again in this wet dance. My only gripe in all of this is that my visage isn’t boasting your spittle.

You don’t move nor make a sound in all this. Then I take you by your wrist, your eyes remain closed yet your mind, oh boy your beautiful mind dipped in spiced imaginations, is wide open and is opening wide still. Head lowered you let me lead you out of the shower-box your long hair trailing after you like an afterthought of the rain. We wade through the smallest of puddles as one, hoping and yearning to make a bigger puddle of our own outside of here, stepping out of the shower-box and out into the constricted openness of the bathroom. Mid-step on an empty whim I twirled you around like we are still dancing from our first night on the roof though we are not under the stars this time around, your damp tangled hair clinging to you offered some resistance to the motions, sprinkling droplets everywhere and some even splashed on my face. I glance up and really wish the surfeit of condensation smoldering on the ceiling is my spire of constellation but it’s just the smudge of this moment unfolding in all its starkness as this snug moment unfolds.

Heaving slightly, dripping profusely, you stand in a corner with a suggestion of a smile tugging the corner of your mouth, an inkling of happiness in your smile plays havoc with my imaginations. Your smile echoes around the gray tiles, rattling around the closed space really resounding within the already pliant bathroom. That smile echoes on and on no longer being stymied by our not so distant future or improper distance. Your smile is not corrupting my momentum, my dream, my prayer, my request to have you in every which way a man can have his woman, nor its glow belittling the exigency that is my need to take you in this unsolicited moment. Ah…Oh! There you are making your last stand against the last of your qualms, looking like a newly turned untamed soil all ready to be plowed thoroughly, everything that your presence elicits in me is unfiltered and unadulterated.

You look like what you really are; not unwanted manna from the heavens. As if you know, the love you have for me won’t be held against you yet somehow you still managed to look like an unspoiled dream that is yet to be burned. All this foreshadowing is equally proportional to the imminence of us, mostly because all my previous denials of you didn’t shatter you.

As I watch you stand before me, I have a small smile of my own. I have been so worried that you have had started the festivities without me. But I have a very comforting feeling that all kinds of juices are about to flow, creative, and fun ones, too. But unfortunately, we are at an impasse, for the siege of your heart is my solace . If I let it, it can be my salvation; it can repair me and I shall fix myself. No matter how much damage it does you is no concern of mine. That’s just too bad, for who the fuck told you to act like a savior anyway? You can save me to be sure, but who will save you? I am not your echo. Why are you mine?

Your head hangs very low, your eyes remain downcast. You continue to flicker before me like a misty smoggy wet apparition. I love saying the word wet around you, you bring a special meaning to it because your wetness is sincere unlike other women I met across the plane of my shame.

You are standing before me breathing in plain sight, but you deign not to cover your breasts. You didn’t fold your arms across your chest to block the fallow view, and what a view it is, what ample bliss they are. Nor do you move to cover your cunt with a swipe of your hands. You trust me with your bare mind alone have me more atremble and more ashiver quickening my already agog pulse than your whole naked acceptance of me.

I start to reach down there, to truly relish it, to have the wisps of your warmth curl around my fingers. My hand swiftly moves toward what belongs to you but is mine to enjoy. I move to touch that, my two curved fingers almost reaching that fiery pit already bitterly cold with hard earned anticipation. I move my hand down there and you skirts back then leans forward again tipping into me, your eyes still closed, playful smile flashing across your face. Your movements correlated with mine, our footwork beguiling our anxiety. My fingers linger down there feeling the heat of your designs emanating from your mold, the breath of your future rising from there was so clear on my fingers, just awaiting my seed. The need to feed you my fingers was intense, almost like twitch of an addict and yet I was your addiction. My fingers didn’t touch it yet I sense your cunt dribble, swelling and quelling at my imagined touch thickening me further, bloating my already urgent avarice for you.

As if the carapace of my desire needs to be any more firm. I am already hard for you as you are wet for me and it is as redundant as it sounds. After all a cunt is where every story begins and where every good story should end. My hand danced near your firepit, I flex my fingers like about to perform tricks like a seasoned legerdemain and coax out something elegiacal from your honeyed insides. My hand wobbles near your ever constricting, ever salivating cunt. I feel if I push in now a special mist will come out of it especially for me.

I pull back while you continue to hover before my existence. I withdraw, forfeiting this particular sweet feel for the moment, just for now all right. Why? Well, we have all the time in these moonless days, our wolf going nowhere and certainly not dying, only howling for one another. Instead I decide to draw you into this game and make you a participant as well as an observer.

I push your up chin, titling back your head, your tangled tresses making squishy sounds; therefore, I render you a player in your own elated decadence.

Gently, gentler than the sun leaving the moon and the moon swaying the sea and the wheat whispering back, I kiss your eyelids to make you open your eyes.

It’s not that you have been shy exactly. It’s just that you have been rather a doormat whilst I have been building this word by word, brick by brick. But now I feel that if you don’t contribute to it, this whole thing would end up being a cairn made up of our bones and that will be terribly anticlimactic, no? We wouldn’t want that. We want an absolution. Because, well, mostly because you merely existing is no longer sufficient contribution. No, let’s be generous and say you have been lazy, wanting the pleasure without the pleasure of working for it. However I am here to tell you in all of you, that you are enraged now; a storm trapped inside you and you trapped in a bell jar with that brewing storm within you just ticking away.

At the rumor of my touch that is the press of my lips to your petal eyelids, your eyes flutter open. And you look at me. Observe OK, so participate now. As your first act as a sovereign, you undress me with your awakened gaze. You look right at me, right through me, to see all of me. You look right down to my core, flaring up the thousand dying suns stroking me without laying a single svelte finger on me while engorging me and raising my gorge for your softness. You have been placid and a bit off but now, oh oh now you look like you are ready to cuddle with a tiger, or maybe you are a tiger and you want me to cuddle with you. You looking at me, stroking me is further emboldening my need for you.

Then you chose to give me tinniest of nods as if your permission means anything now, like it matters by now. You make your move, flipping the game upside down, chucking away the norm, the expected, the safe, and kiss both sides of my face, but you fall short, so very short, of kissing my mouth, separating me to make that final gesture to seal both our bodies together, we were already fillips of each other’s faith. But to bring our faces together and the kissing of the mouths you leave that to me. To kiss your mouth. That is my pleasure, my right your gift to me, and my curse. To kiss you my only job, the sole occupation of my mind- and you moaning my name my only payment. I know how to kiss and you know how to moan, all the songs our lips together will bring out, songs pure enough to move the sea to tears and it will cry its own ocean at the unattainable simplicity of us. Or is the sea bemoaning the finality of us?

You kiss my cheek and your voice explodes somewhere behind me.

We can, yes. We may.