The fog comes from the sea, and when it rests upon her belly, I stroke her face and drink some more wine. With each mouthful, it stings my gums and turns my insides, but it helps in ways I can’t quite fathom. Between her legs, the scent of nature is overwhelming. Something ancient. A primal odour that renders me blind. Like her smell, the ways of her heart are tricky to ascertain, and as such, I’ve spent years trying to understand something I can’t figure out at all. Placing my lips upon her skin, the doorway opens. Just a slither at first, and then all the way. The music coming from within is a childhood rhyme that takes me to the stars; the place I desire to be above all else. Because there’s no place like home, and I need to return, to get back to where I truly belong. Her song; it’s the hymn of something celestial, pouring out of her like the memory of my grandmother’s kiss, or the sepia image of snowfall in a town that slipped out of sight many years ago. The fog obscures her features, but her eyes shine as bright as they need to be, and there, somewhere, are two black holes, gazing into me the same as I gaze into them. And then comes her sigh that causes me to shudder, and as the sounds of some fairground flutter on the breeze, I drink my wine and move my hands around her, and so these desires spiral out of control.
A Journal for Damned Lovers UK
A Journal for Damned Lovers US
Absolutely love this, SK
Thank you! So pleased you do!
Thank you! 🙂
Someone that reminds you of your childhood innocence, that’s someone you should, hold onto, but, you won’t be able to, because just like how childhood is gone, it’s, gone forever from us…
I think the role of the artist is to keep the seed of childhood alive. It’s only a seed they have to play with, but if nurtured, that seed can grow into something wild.