Thursday, February 14, 2008

Ars Amatoria, Remedia Amoris

I see her almost every day and nod, smiling. She nods back. When she notices. If she notices. She wears bike shorts and a teeny camisole. Watching her, her legs, the way they extend, toes pointed, as she rides. No hands. It’s a crime for a woman her age to wear bike shorts and look that good. It’s a crime to look that good. And not be mine.

I can see myself between those legs.

Her shirt plastered to her, to her breasts. I wonder if they’re real. I wonder what her sweat coated skin tastes like, run my tongue along her linea negra, her navel, up to her ribs, fragile bones I could crush. Licking the salt pooled under those breasts, while my fingers... Smoothing my hands over her, that crease where her legs meet that perfect heart-shaped ass, clench those thighs, just hard enough to see my fingerprints.

I can see myself squeezing those breasts.

I want her flushed and sweaty. Because of me. Not her bike. She reaches up, exposing a few inches of sun-kissed skin, just above the indent of her spine, dimples on either side. If she were younger, she’d have a tramp stamp there, across her lower back. But she doesn’t. I want to see her ride me until she collapses. After, I’ll bathe her and rub scented lotion into that skin.

I can see my name tattooed there, on her lower back.

Opalescent. Not shell, not marble, not metal, no, not cold at all. I touched her once. Brushed past her on the express line at Publix "where shopping is a pleasure." She was picking up the Sunday New York Times and a dozen donuts. It was early. The Times sells out by 8. "Oh. Excuse me. Did I trip you?" I grasp her elbow, hold it to steady her. "No, I’m fine, really I am. It’s okay." Oh god, her elbow, her arm so warm and solid. Warm, like a cat napping in a sunny spot under the window. Does she stretch like a cat, paws down, butt in the air, exposed, tail flicking back and forth?

I can see myself curled up with her, tail holding me to her.

I would...
Oh I would bury my handsfaceself inside her. I would.
I want to make her eyes roll back, make her toes curl, make her throb and twitch and spasm
I want to make her cry out, make her breathless, dazed, exhausted, make her happy.
I want to make her happy.
I want to make her forget all the sad.
I want to make her forget all the befores
I want to make her mine.
If only she’d let me. If only.

What color are her eyes when she wakes up? When she cums? Sleeping beauty, I’ll love you awake, slow smile of pleasure at dreams become real. They will become real. Open your eyes to a living dream and let them be real. If you kissed me, brushed those lips against me, gave me a chance, one chance, just one chance, I know, I know you’d cry "yes, oh yes, oh yes." My mouth on yours, nibbling your lower lip, tongue slowly, so slowly entering your mouth, running it over your teeth, your palate, flicking against your tongue. Let me fall into an abyss I never want to climb out of. If only you’d let me.

I can see myself in her. I want to see myself in her.

Hair just long enough to wrap around my hand, pull her head back and stroke her windpipe with my thumbs. I could press. But I don’t. Push her down, feel that hot little mouth on me, oh yes. Taste me on her lips. After. I want her stretched out, naked. So naked. I want her insides, outsides, substantives, ephemerals. Feel that heart shaped ass on me, the curve of her spine. I’ll keep you in my pocket. Safe. I want you. I want everything about you.

And you don’t even know I exist.

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