Ebony kisses

"What are you thinking?"

You never asked, but if you did, right at that moment, right when my nose was pressed softly against the back of your shoulder, my arm around you, our feet intertwined and the gentle spring breeze kissing our damp bodies while the birds chirped outside, I would have replied:

"I'm in heaven."

I would have replied:

"If I died right now ... right at this very moment ... I hope at some point in a next life I get to relive this minute."

I would have replied:

"Did you know your skin smells like sweet Egyptian musk, and so does your hair. And look at your skin -- it couldn't be any more black than mine white? Look -- isn't the contrast of our beings absolutely beautiful? Aren't we ... just ... beautiful?"

But ... because you never asked, you'll never know the million little things I wanted to tell you, and that's alright because it's better that way. I guess. Yes. It is. It's better you know nothing of my thoughts of our shared moments.

After all, in the partnership we have ambiguously arranged, emotions should not be uttered, nor shared. Fucking your personal trainer can have its set backs ... and push ups ... and lat pull downs ...

Instead we lay there, in each others arms. Two little spoons. Two little souls, lonely and in need of some comfort. For the moment.

You move. Shift a little. I assume you're going to get going.

Instead. You stay.

Your tight dread locks tickle part of my cheek. You can't see me, but I'm smiling.

What am I thinking? I'm thinking:

Remember these moments, Rose. These moments, these thoughts. Remember this hour -- the smell of him, the grip of him, the needing of him. Take it all in.

To this day, I believe that hour was made just for us.

And as I ponder to myself now, as I rekindle the thought of these moments -- moments that happened weeks ago -- that one hour was an hour well spent.

An hour well kept ...

An hour that was made just for us.

Incredible lightness

He called me from his hotel room.

"You won't believe this view, Rose. You'd love it."

"Would I?"

"I wish you were here."

So did I. More than anything. I wouldn't let him know it.

I heard the excitement in his voice. I refused to make a move without an invitation. Being eager now could kill the magic.

He messaged me the following day: "Stay with me."

I booked a flight, packed my bag, got my nails done and headed north. Butterflies made my stomach sick.

I arrived, made my way to his hotel. The lobby was electric with power. I knew he hand picked this establishment.

I announced my arrival and made my way to the bar. Not many minutes passed before I heard -

"Hey, beautiful."

He was more handsome than I remembered. This was going to be more fun than I thought.

"Welcome to New York."

The tingling is getting to me ...

Damn the "what ifs" ...

Life told me today that things were just not meant between me and that martian man.

I'm disappointed, yes, because I get tangled up in the fantasy of "what ifs" and regret to acknowledge my own wants ...

My wants, my wants, my needs of adventure and complete embrace of being single. My urge to explore and taste all the windows of opportunity.

Life is telling me there are other things out there ... that I should pursue something else ... and take this time to grow into my own ...

Pull my hair

His mouth tastes of sweet limes.

With surprisingly deep blue eyes he studies me. He's looking for something. My weaknesses perhaps, my flaws, my insecurities. He smiles softly. This man has something I want.

We went from strangers to lovers that evening over single-malt scotch and pink champagne. It's amazing what decisions such lonely intoxicated minds make. Especially when he has money to spend.

We take our evening to the next level and stumble into a luxury hotel.

Our room overlooks the beach. It is beautiful; surreal. Everything is fuzzy and light.

Nothing we do to each other feels good; nothing feels bad -- we two strangers are at a point where we can no longer feel. We just want. And we want all night long.

The ocean breeze wakes us. I was sore. He was to blame, as was the scotch.

He sleepily complains and I smile at his hang over. Picking up the phone I order Grey Goose bloody Mary's and egg-white omelettes for both of us before lifting myself up off this cloud.

I was leaving in five hours -- flying back east to a place I called home.

"You leaving?"

"Yes. In a little while."

"... Don't."

"Don't?"

"Why do you have to go? Stay the weekend with me."

I turn to face him. Smiling, he lay there naked as Adam on the ruffled white bed; naked and proud as if his body could convince me to change my mind. He knew it could.

"Darling ... I will not stay the weekend."

"Do you know how beautiful you are?" His lines have probably worked before.

"Yes."

"I like you." He looks at me. He's even more handsome this morning than I remember him in my drunken haze of last night. No distractions. Fighting them I get up and pull a sheet to cover me.

"I ordered us breakfast." I said making my way to the bathroom.

"You're perfect." Ah. He had successfully found my weakness. I smile at him.

"And single." I had found his.

Stepping out of the shower my hair dripped around my shoulders. My skin smelled of oranges and warm lavender.

"Towel?" He smiled letting himself into the steamy room.

"I'm sure we could find a better way for me to dry off." I gave in just a little.

The bedsheets worked perfectly.

We took our bodies to the limit one last time. Hoping maybe this time we could feel something. Windows open. Room service knocking.

With tabasco and vodka on his lips he smiled at me.

"I think I love you, Rose." He said those words on purpose. The man is a shark.

"Darling, of course you love me." So am I.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because ... You'll never see me again."

We smile at each other. I wonder if he, a fresh fourty-four, and I, an almost twenty-five, have ever known our true selves.

"That's where you're wrong, Rose. I'll fly east to see you. Take my word."

"Well then, darling. Let us drink to ... love." I toast. The spicy cocktail runs down my chin a little; a drop falls and his eyes follow.

"To love," he whispers as he reaches intowards me.

He licks the drop that landed on my chest. I inhale sharply ... in that moment, I start to tingle.

To love.

Sealed. Shut.

Waiting to cross the street, I felt a hovering hand on my lower back. Looming softly over the brim of my ass, it lurked, almost in desperation, wanting to land.

I looked at him, and with my eyes tried to say "what do you think you're doing?"

He just smiled, "watch your left -- after the blue car we can go. I got'cha."

Part of my body wished it had steel spikes, or stinging acid to ward off unwanted ex-lovers' touches. I wanted to tell him I didn't feel comfortable, I wanted to step to my left and out of his reach, I wanted the cars that were coming to slow so I could run ahead and no longer feel his warmth through my coat. But my mouth wouldn't move.

Then his hand slipped down. With purpose. And now rested on my right cheek.

Still, as if wired shut, my mouth wouldn't move. It wouldn't move. It wouldn't move. I couldn't. Just couldn't ...

"Rose! Rose! What are you doing! A car ..."

I don't know why I couldn't have just told him to move his hand. Why didn't my lips part or my tongue bite?

The blare of the Mercedes horn didn't scare me. The screech of tires and smell of hot, wet rubber didn't embarrass me. The shocked and curious stares of passers-by didn't phase me. Neither did the "what the fuck is your goddamn problem!" from the driver.

None of it mattered. None of it mattered because I was now on the other side of the street. His hand no longer lurking. Our relationship done, over and in the past.

My lips, still not moving.

I was safe. Iwas safe, alone, and no longer part of him.

In {greed} ients

i
I've reached it.

In ways I want to slap you.

Slap you so hard ... slap you so fucking hard,

Slap you so hard,

you'd look,

just

like me --

Swollen and de-hydrated.


Joshua; I'm such a mortal mess.


Your lips,

Your beautiful lips,

Splintered.


I did that. Yes, I did.


And I'm here,

Still licking,

licking,

you _ _ u n _ _ d.

doing my best not to,

but still,

against my will,

No longer

no longer,

attaching you,

to what I thought I wanted ...

Bite.

The other day I dreamt pieces of a cockroach landed in my mouth.

"What the hell did you eat that night?"

"Sushi ... really good sushi."

"Sake?"

"Yeah."

"Cold?"

"Warm."

"Well, that explains your cockroach problem ..."

Smirk.

In my dream I also wanted the lime carpet replaced ...

I wanted to tuck my lover's son into bed, maybe read him a story.

I wanted to buy an old four-poster bed for me to share, and clean-smelling clothes. I wanted a vacuum cleaner to suck up the plastered paint chips that were biting the soles of my feet.

I wanted strong coffee. I wanted sex. I wanted my clever-red finger nail polish to be repainted.

I wanted my old life back.

My old life?

Come with me to a place atop the wind, I'll take your wings and fly,
Come with me to a place inside a cloud, I'll show you how to use them ...

I woke up violently - spitting. Trying to rid my mouth of cockroach antennae.

As my eyes came into focus ... I was relieved to be in my bed. The bed I knew - my fluffy oasis of pastel moss-green silk, coral and cream. Billowy pillows hugged close to me. Lavender in the air. Wood floors. Georgia O'Keeffe still on my wall.

I woke up still single. No lover. His son a fragment. The pieces of cockroach gone.

My throat was sore ...

Part of me still wanted to tuck that little boy into bed ... and maybe read him a story.

Maybe.

Will you keep watch for me?

I should have known how crafty you were when first introduced ...

"Rose, this is Life. Life enjoys warm weather, sea salt-kissed powder-soft grains of sand sticking to her toes while she sips on a well mixed Mojito. She also finds pleasure in the depth of the "F#" on a grand piano. Life will be living in your head for the duration of this experiment."

"Hi, Life."

"Hi."

"Life, this is Rose. Rose enjoys strong, black coffee as thick and curious as ebony blocks, and bold colors - her most recent favorite is blue-blue."

"Blue-blue?"

"Yes. Blue-blue, like the dress she's wearing. See?"

"Ah, yes. Pretty."

"Sometimes Rose finds great enjoyment in wallowing in the self-pity of others. Rose has no idea the capacity of her emotional flexibility."

It was then that Life smirked. I should have backed out of the experiment. But here I am as Life tests my flexibility like a sadistic Yoga instructor.

And for dessert ... Hanumanasana Seated splits

Last night it didn't work very well -- I gave in to sweet, sweet Patron and danced with him into the tune of lime, lime, lime.

"In F#?"

"I don't know. Look for the grains of salt in between the keys."

Sometimes I feel Life kissing the inside walls of my skull. Her nose tickles.

I know she'll keep bending me --

Bending me to the experiment of almost breaking.

That's why I guess I hurt so much right now ... I'm being bent to full capacity, like the band of a sling-shot, or in this case, a catapult.

The question is ... when will Life let go?

Personal study: Manicured toes

God, you're beautiful.

Long, artistic, and curiously powerful; like the fingers.

Gasp. The fingers?

Relax.

Relax?

Stop complaining; This salty lather has been said to trigger sexu -

Excuse me? When did I agree to a salty later?

Love it.

I guess this is what it feels like to be owned.

You are mine.

Who gave you say?

The tickling is just a symptom ...

Would you please stop her?

No. This costs $50. You should be in extascy.

I'm in hell ... ouch.

Be in utopia.

I can't.

For $50 you will. Imagine it if you have to.

Do I look good?

You will ...

Will you tell me when I'll feel good?

"Ng Ma" will take good care of you.

Ng Ma?

She's the best.

Will I ...

Yes ... you will match the nails on our fingers.

Are they bleeding, too?

Yes.

Why?

It matters.

Why?

I will matter ... And eventually so will you ...

Why?

I really don't know.

Following today's thoughts ...

1. 12:34 P.M. EST:

This afternoon during a meeting I wondered what my co-worker looked like naked. This is a first for me.

He has an excellent body; one that wears that grey-blue, blue sweater well. Very well. So well, in fact, I felt the sudden urge to take it off him right there in the conference room. So I did.

Next I took hold of his belt and slipped it slowly through each loop of his jeans. I moved down and took off his shoes, slid both of his socks off, moved back up and undid his button, slowly unzipped his zipper, slid his boxers off with ease -- Hanes. Not surprised.

I then stoodd back. Admiring.

He was still while he watched and listened intently to the
feasibly-lovely-yet-effete presentation.

I imagined him naked. It worked. And there he stood. Absolutely beautiful. No David ... but almost.

The male body is a wonderful thing when done correctly.

We shared that moment in my head, in the conference room. He still doesn't know; he never will.

It was bizarre. His body - your body - is gorgeously, indifferentlty, bizarre.

2. 2:31 P.M. EST:

There is a sad, sad, angry demon that lives inside my Blackberry. I have a strange feeling this demon is in love with me.

Though I embrace it I will never return this love. That is why he keeps vibrating. Furiously in my purse, the palm of my hand, on my newspaper, atop my pillow.

I will never set him free. Ever.

I like it that way.

3. 3:15 P.M. EST:

A week ago this individual gave me his music to listen to; So I did. I liked it.

I looked him up and sent him an email. Five days ago.

He hasn't responded.

I am left forlorn and empty. Maybe slightly dirty; and find myself no longer enjoying the sound of his voice.

I feel weak; I know you feel my weakness, too. And that's okay.

4. 3:19 P.M. EST:

This ridiculous muffin is calamitous; I'll eat it anyway. I'm picky, but up for an adventure.

Why not?

5. 4:21 P.M. EST:

I should wear this shirt more often. My cleavage is fantastic.

6. 5:02 P.M. EST: On the Metro:

There is a silence in my life that has come undone.

Being single is difficult for someone like me.

Why? It's annoyingly simple: I have to find my own way to numb the time instead of relying on another to do it for me.

It's the quiet that bothers me most. Everything is so quiet when one is alone. So quiet.

Shhhhh. Rose.

My mouth doesn't move as much as it used to, nor do my eyes. Time is slower which eventually tempts me to drink or smoke or spend money, watch idiotic films, dive into self-induced romantic fantasies.

This week alone I've been engaged (eh), married (interesting) and have fantasized flying off to Rome and Spain and Brazil and Singapore with a man I barely even know (colorful).

It killed a few hours.

Just imagine. I've lived another life in just a few hours.

This is the taste of loneliness. And it's interestingly sweet. Like a good gin & tonic (familiar).

With lime.

Smoking, Zarathustra?

I like to keep her in a little box. A little box with tiny diamond shaped mirrors on it, and a pearl, a fake one, in the middle.

The cheap black felt is wearing off. She doesn't mind though. Because she's safe. She's safer in there.

Sometimes I let her out on the vibrations of a cello string or in the red of my pinot noir. She likes those moments. Alone.

Last Tuesday I found her sitting on my toothbrush. Waiting. As if a bus were to pick her up on my sink.

"Who are you waiting for?"

"Pandora. She's bringing her goldfish."

"Mortimer?"

We had a nice breakfast, and I put her back in her little box. She gets cold so I gave her an extra cotton ball. Just one.

Sometimes I worry about her. She doesn't have many friends and no longer finds her little mirrors enough - nor the blue-blue smoke. And her pearl is chipped as if someone took a bite.

This morning she was on my keyboard lying over F, G, H and J. Shivering.

I picked her up and went to her little box - it was a pile of ash under my bed.

She looked up at me, her lips purple and her little wings, iridescent green and orange, were glued to her body for warmth.

"I was asleep—from a deep dream I woke and swear:—The world is deep, deeper than day had been aware."

I warmed her up with my blow dryer and wrapped her in a fresh lemon rind. Since then I've let her sit on my keyboard and at times I allow her to live in my fingertips.

She likes it. So do her little wings.

Strum for me

I hear the sound of his voice and the sotto voce strum of his guitar followed by the unexpected clearness of my words: "I think I'm in love."

"What dear?"

Funny how Venus takes control of your tongue when she tastes the champagne on your lips ...

New Year's day, it is. Veuve Clicquot has made its acquaintance and kisses me gently as I laugh with women who have loved, and loved, and lost too much from it ... Yet, we laugh. We laugh. We laugh. And it feels okay.

He plays. God, he plays. The music is enchanting. He Sings a sweet song in Portuguese that captures my complete attention - attention he does not prepare for, or expect.

I watch him.

I want to be his guitar, the glistening caramel single malt in his snifter, on his lips, his breath as he sings, the microphone, the sunset warming his back. I want to be. I want to be. Closer. On him. Inside.

The sun drops slowly as a ball of gooey amber honey behind him as he sings - a lonely soul forced to play for the pigs in their finest fines in this eloquent lounge.

Deixa cantar de novo o trovador

A merencória luz da lua

Toda a canção do meu amor

Quero ver a “sá dona” caminhando ...

I have no sense of what your words mean, but they are beautiful. My body wants them so badly it absorbes the vibrations in the air and goosebumps flutter to my surface.

Nothing else matters. Just you, your words ... this.

Casually as it had started, his song ends. I watch him as he takes a moment to inhale the end of his chord. He's the only one in his world, and I know he doesn't care to be here. He carelessly flips a page on his stand and starts moving on to the next song. I can't let him. Stay here. Stay here in this moment with me.

I need to stop him.

So I clap. I clap softly at first then loud and constant. Clapping, only me. This is my solo.

His head tilts up as if he just then noticed he had an audience. I look him in the eye. My smile is enough, "you're excellent," I say with my eyes.

His eyes eventually find mine - a princess atop her castle with two diamond draped queens sitting softly abound. Her protectors.

We're worlds apart yet one and the same. Energies collide.

Everyone around us starts clapping.

It is New Years day. And for the first time, he's glad to be exactly where he is.

"Thank you."

Together

I can hear you, just barely --
my heart knows your words
more than I ever could.
I feel your existence.

Do you believe in time?
If you do then we've shared it.
As we have shared the waves,
the salt and the grains of sand;
In our shared kisses --
We are never near the dances end.

I remember you, I do -
my life is not complete without
the simple thrill your voice gives me;
as sunset sets and the world
is rounded by our touch
in the palm of our embers.

So I'll toast to you through green glass;
hoping you will find my energy,
so we can share moments together again
in tears and grains of time and wonder;
making love. Together again.

-- two days from you.