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.