billythecow @ 2006-09-14T22:27:00

2006-09-15T05:43:10Z

Sometimes my dreams are creepy

They say she waits at the river.

There is multitude of waiting, wandering women there. Desperate, or maybe just young, and on any given night they spread themselves over the bay. Searching, for something to quench the addiction, something to make them whole, something to fill them with whatever it is they need.

She is different.

It's hard to see with a man's eyes. Her lips are painted rouge and her hair spirals on her head. Her dress is white, pure and delicate as a young girl’s bridal gown. She will be the bride any man for a cost. Any of the girls along the river would.

But she is different.

Unlike the others, who hunt in experienced packs, she always walks alone.

A man will find her, and even as he opens his mouth to name a price, she shuts it for him. And why fear the price that you cannot see?

She's inside of him before they ever touched. If he wonders what it is that's pressing against him, if not her fingers it doesn't stop him from reaching out to her. If he wonder what it is rising inside of him against her touch, it doesn't stop him from pulling her closer.

His back in the dirt, her head in the sky they fall.

Her face hangs at an angle. She alone cannot support it, and so she leans over him, even as she is splayed out on top him, and he is rising higher inside of her. Her hair falls over her, over him. One partially bare breast reaching for him. She offers it to him, like a nurse to her charge, and those fingers stroke his hair, like a child to a father, as the others ground them to the earth.

But she is still on top of him, her skin cold all over him, her presence drifting through them, and even though her gaze in on the moon, and her neck is drifting towards the earth, they are together like only lovers can be.

Perhaps he realizes how cool her skin is, like a shadow on top of him, and sees the large, unblinking eyes. Polished hollow vases of amber and moonlight pulling his desire into the depthless void, as he scrapes along the hollow insides of her.

But it doesn’t matter because now, they’re already closer then he ever thought possible. Finger digging raw groves into her back, as heels burrow into flesh. All around it, he is meeting her.

“Deeper,” she says, and her voice is a brush of dying leaves, and a rattle of bones on a sunless horizon.

Maybe he thinks it’s impossible. After all, he is already closer to her then should be possible, closer then he’s ever been to anyone, closer than he’s been to himself.

So close that he can’t tell where her skin is meeting his, and were it has already fused together. How they will ever separate that he doesn’t know, but it doesn’t matter because they are so close that their hearts are rising through the bone and fusing together, and maybe it’s strange that hers no longer seems to beat, just as it’s strange that her lips remain as motionless as her eyes, and even her chest never seems to rise or fall with the passing of breath.

It’s already inconsequential. It is a duel to the death, and he lost the moment he saw those amber eyes, that parted lips, and willing opened flesh.

“Deeper, deeper,” her voice nothing more than a scratching in the wind, her lips never moving as the words leave them, he is already moving to meet her.

Straining to try to into her, closer, closer, just one more inch, and he’s almost there.

And then that voice is all around him, “Deeper, deeper,” and it’s not even the wind calling to him anymore, it’s someplace deep in his mind, and deep in his heart. And then the random thought that this must be what a mother feels when they bring a child into the world, pushing struggling, just a little more and then you’ll forever be one, separate but together.

And so he puts everything he has into that last push, and in that minute it all comes together, and she takes him completely as his breath leaves him, and he gives completely as he utters on last cry, one last push, and whether that last scream is in terror, or ecstasy no one will ever be able to say.

His own lust will warm both their skins, and her polished eyes will catch his desire and reflect it back at him. And as he moves closer, he can make her whatever he needs to be, see whatever he wishes to for she is just a blank canvas waiting for a painter, a barren, flowerless vase waiting for him to fill her.

They tell the story often.

The men will listen, and then go home to their wives, and note the lusty redness in their full brown skin, the deep color of her eyes, and how alive and warm her skin is and think that no, there is nothing to worry about here.

And the woman will takes the men in their arms and move against them and into them until they have completely forgotten the story. Men forget where women remember everything.

In the back of it all she lurks.