The contours of you are shrouded now, veils of vaporous silk, smoke that smells of lavender, vanilla, amber or civet. The oils evaporate on disappearing skin. They are a shimmer, a shiver, a shudder, a wake. Only pieces of you will remain: your name that sounded like a character's, your black eyes entrapping the sun, the apish hair on your forearm, the leaden weight of your cock. You are a stain on my memory, spilled wine on white alpaca.
I have laid beside a hundred (or more) lovers and--closing my eyes tightly, trying to memorize this other, concentrating--I have listened to the crackle and pop as they begin to burn. Disfigured by memory, I retain them, the ember and the heat. But they are only skeletons, bones thrown on the fire. The glowing eyes of Tituba will teach us how to read...
...our fortunes. This one is only a trickle of sweat that cuts his blade and bleeds down the valley of his spine. Another will forever be his muffled ecstasy, the pleading whisper and the arms wrapped, starving, round my neck. A third is one bright blue, bloodshot eye, comically caught in the deluge of ejaculant, the stinging of my laughter.
The last, let's say, is a gray-haired stranger; between his few and awkward words, a sadness sits in the expectant silence that almost sounds like screaming. After we have both cum, he will show me photographs. He too is trying to remember the details now forgotten, trying to be satisfied with what remains.
I have laid beside a hundred (or more) lovers and--closing my eyes tightly, trying to memorize this other, concentrating--I have listened to the crackle and pop as they begin to burn. Disfigured by memory, I retain them, the ember and the heat. But they are only skeletons, bones thrown on the fire. The glowing eyes of Tituba will teach us how to read...
...our fortunes. This one is only a trickle of sweat that cuts his blade and bleeds down the valley of his spine. Another will forever be his muffled ecstasy, the pleading whisper and the arms wrapped, starving, round my neck. A third is one bright blue, bloodshot eye, comically caught in the deluge of ejaculant, the stinging of my laughter.
The last, let's say, is a gray-haired stranger; between his few and awkward words, a sadness sits in the expectant silence that almost sounds like screaming. After we have both cum, he will show me photographs. He too is trying to remember the details now forgotten, trying to be satisfied with what remains.
1 comment:
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I loved what I've just read - and wanted to write a comment that did not diminish the poetry of your words...
However, either my English or my imagination seem too short of terms - what I'd be too sorry for! - if I was not so grateful and fulfilled by reading (in your words) so much of my own acceptance, recallections, denial, expectations, confusion and power for heving dedicated so much of myself to such experiences.
Oh, the flow that simply dragged me along; oh, that flow!
And so many thoughts and memories...
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