Bad title and belated understanding

So, here’s the latest piece.  I think it’s done…though I hate the title–it absolutely works on every level that I want it to, and yet fails miserably (not that the original title, “Love Story”, works anymore either)–and now that I actually know what the whole piece is about, I’m thinking I may rip this up and toss it out, start over again from scratch, and write the actual story that this one was supposed to be.

But, hey, whatever this is, it’s done, or close to it.  So, good morning, it’s Sunday, life doesn’t suck quite as bad as we think it does in our worst moments…and today, something new has come into it, something that wasn’t here yesterday.  Life endures, and expands, in all it’s myriad, bizarre forms.

So please enjoy.  Ignoring everything I’ve just written, I did enjoy writing it.


Broken Liquid Smoke

Smoke, curling and coating.  Ashes of mourning, dawning embers, and smoke, enfolding.  Brow, cheek and neck, inhaled, and bow.  Curved, about and around and through, aching in a shaken glow.  Hands, one and three and two and none, high legs and thigh, parting and coming

back

arched.

Inhale, and the burn comes.

Scent of sweat, stained and coating, sheer.  Fingers spreading, shaped and dissipating, reaching beyond, sliding into far corners with patient ease.  Sheets and skins entangled, feet pushing and yearning, pressing into it.  And a cry, soft and small, smiling in the hollow.

Exhale, hidden and discarded.

Cold spark, peaked beyond heat, tiny cut and ache.  Rippled breath stepping sidewise through paused skeins to present tumble.

Need, resonant and misaligned.  Pause extends, breath held beyond gasp.  Eyes focus, hands slide and grip, weightless suspends, weightful beckons.  Wave collapses, moment intrudes, and the slowly embittering awareness of now encroaches.

He cannot see beyond her.  Infinite passes, her eyes and the small wrinkles and imperfections present before him.  A whole slips, grasping for the sum in its place.  A cough, an awkward shift, brief pain and apology, disconnect and pause.

She reaches for his face and her nail pokes his cheek, drawing blood.

Rhythm endures, imperfect but persistent, she ultimately draws him forth, emptying and filling, exploding and slowly trickling, shaking and collapsing, a kiss quit in passing, expectedly-exquisite pressure…but expectations fail, and all is weight, and waiting.

Eyes, dark and open, counting breaths.  Speckled overhead, shadows slowly crawl, a dull gray seeping, filling what might, and should, and could, and please please

please

would be.

Gray, still, quiet.

She rolls onto her side, her back to him, and sighs as she doesn’t fall asleep.

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One response to “Bad title and belated understanding

  1. I think you’re smoking crack. The title is perfect.

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