story pt 2

The moon again. This time she watches us, or rather watches him watch me come undone and watches me watching him and I can’t blame her for even a moment as her eyes feast upon the feral brilliance that he brings to her visure. Heated and smoky his breath leaves hangman’s lips, pouring over my flesh and coaxing a sound of discontent, frustration, pleading from now smudged petals. Unwrapped, my garments lay strewn through the apartment and all that I can think of in that moment is how quickly I’ve been left reeling, my voice caught in the slender column of porcelain that is my throat and I hope with every gnash of his teeth that he severs my idiot head from my hyper sensitive body. In that moment I am vulnerable, but I am whole. Thoughts that once swam with thoughts of flowers and the rain and the delicate veins in his too capable hands as they clutched that goddamned pencil like I wanted them to hold me now consolidate and head south for the winter that the work week will bring. Their tenacity brings friction brings heat beneath his searching fingertips that find their slick destination and bring my panting to fever pitch and once again I am reminded that this was effortless. That since I first saw him that evening I had been starved, in a way that for even years could only be attributed to one thing, and now another. That my fingertips had been shaking long before they’d been dragging through his hair, clutching at the sheets beneath me in an attempt to gain purchase on my sanity. Tired legs, seemingly endless as they lifted to cup and nourish the slope of his hips, tired from squeezing too tightly together for too long in an attempt to suppress the urge to wrap them around his skull and smother him in the way that only my name on his lips smothered me. There was no polite and neighborly greeting this night. There was no quiet admiration, no bated breath, no feeling one another out and sitting peacefully beneath the performing moon. Tonight though, tonight the moon is a voyeur, and she stares down as he claims me as his own and there is nothing I can think of that I would rather be. Harder, he promises that I’ll never forget the moon or his writing or this night or any other and as my name leaves his lips a second time, I’m sure that it was created solely for him to speak. Claimed, claim, and even still he plays she loves me she loves me not and plucks at the flower petals that he dampened with his storm and I am more than sure that at any moment the sound of my need will collapse the roof and leave us both more destitute and pained than we were before our skin met, and the moon will smile and continue on with her perverse staring, smiling upon the love that was made beneath her and the love yet to come as she sleeps.