Violent moments demand violent responses, I might reason.
I crave violence now, crave you, crave the sting on my bare skin, loss of control, submission.
Take me over, take me away. Would I climb a mountain to find you? oh satisfaction, gritty wanting scaling upwards, in spite of it all, just to see the view from the top. Take me higher still.
I am exhausted. Let me float, disappear, redefine myself, you, become strong again in the vulnerability of a moment.
And yet… is this it? Do we cancel pain with more pain, with sublimation? Or is there more beyond this, more in who we are, infinity in who we all could be?
She was modest to start, knowing that their lusty adventure was this time a performance. His hand swept down the outside of her thigh, and back up the inside of it, with a raw grace that only lovers know, and she melted then as he lowered his head. And so it began. Exposed, they let me in, wonder heating the room, desire shared, and yet exclusive. And so they stayed.
Some sleep with another in the night, one rolling to turn off a light then drop a sleepy hand over the other’s shoulder. Sleep. Sun streams in, and hair, sweat, love linger in the sheets, in memories, in dreams that fade lazily into day.
Some sleep and dream, perhaps, awaken abruptly. The morning is crisp and new, inviting not the lingering, but the search, the never-ending search.
Spring stalls. It tempts. It teases, and hides.
I am not a fan of the cold, winter. Not too many people are, I know, so this in me is ordinary.
Still, the snow falls on this first full day of spring, and it covers the dirt, the things we have not yet cleaned out. It blankets the still-cold ground, comforting at least for a little while longer, covering for at least a little while longer the things we are not yet ready to expose to the warmth of the sun…
Funny how a bit a warmth can seem so bittersweet, the light and heat seeming just too intense at times, just too good.
A few buds first, please. A bud, then a flower, then slowly, spring.
They have returned, nearly two weeks ago now. They arrived the day the snow melted.
I thought I knew the bird as I glanced out the window–a titmouse, wasn’t it? But no–tufted, but different. I watched them as they greedily attacked my cherry tree, lusty little creatures, so beautiful still with their golden full bellies, their masks. They chattered and shared their bounty with one another before flying off swallow-like to another yard, another tree, another fruit-filled orgy.
But they have returned each morning since… still finding pleasure in my yard. Lovely.
The sun warms my arms as I take a step onto the sidewalk, headed into the day, into life, into spring, which will come soon, which will be waiting.