I smell her on my fingers, that sensual scent, moist and sweet, nectar from her hidden fruit. I inhale the aroma and feel her breath still in my lungs, it spreads through my veins, saturating each cell, unobtrusively, yes, not intruding, but as fresh and potent as the brisk ocean air, rising clustered with salt crystals, rushing through my lips and descending my throat, like the day we spent in the cemetery not kissing but sharing our breath beneath a bold and gracious sun-
“I must recognize that she is a woman.” She said. What the fuck does that mean? As we lay together and I am drawn into nefarious sleep, I am fragmented, a part pulled into another realm, and her touch pulls me back, though the lulling allure of slumber is strong, I am half here and half there, shocked when she reels me in with her breath and heat and skin and scent, I am confused and wander uncontrollably between the heavy gravity of the other realm and the bold insistence of her desire.
She liked it when I told her “there will never be an us!” and also that I don’t believe in her at all; these statements make her smile and laugh and feel no pressure; it is funny, she says, and the sound of her glee and the image of her visage makes me rise up from the earth, hover a few inches, light, alive and ethereal…
She sits, her back against the mirror, an open book in front of her, half a cigarette burning by a low leveled amber colored pint glass, and I allow the quick guitarist with his baby in black bag to pass, before I move into the subterranean place, down the stairs, and angle my intention to a chair across from her. She looks up and grins, a nymph, eyes alive, 2 tiny supernovas on a black surface, elven, her long gnarly unkept hair, curly, pulled to a point at the apotheosis of her blessed head, her cheeks now spread, and I smile too, say nothing. she is sublime in effortless beauty, so rough and real, almost too real for simple recognition, I know I am in a different position of perceptions because I take all-of-her in, in to my head, my heart, my lungs, my love; the magic boldness of her body, and the way she moves, as the air around her grooves in ripples; she walks through, sensual, oblivious to her feline grace, and strength- there is always a slight reverberation of atoms and molecules surrounding her; seated in the bar with a blue t-shirt, orange leather coat thrown aside, little feet in loafing clogs, and on the page of the open sketch book before her is an explosion of a magical bird, wings spread, soaring…
