Ian,
My body is a place you lay. Last night, I climbed the narrow child's ladder to the top bunk we sleep on. I had a loft bed for years when I was younger, and the sense of being suspended in air is one I think I must be comforted by. You were spread, one leg crooked, like a hanged man, on the mattress, your skin bare. When I crawled next to you, overlapping you, your hands snaked into mine and you clawed me closer. I don't know if you know you do that.
There are low railings that keep children in their top bunk. The dark wood of them gives me the sense we're in a coffin together. Would they pose us, dead, just like we were? Your arm over my waist, our foreheads pressed together, knees interlocking, my arm twisting like a root around the back of your shoulder. I'm the grave of myself sometimes, much more than the body that lies in it.
You woke tight against me, your hands squeezing me to clutch some realness or substantial thought that I'm here. I wonder if you have bad dreams, or you fear the black spaces your mind can vanish. I don't know. Maybe it feels good to wake up wrapped around a girl. You woke up, and rolled slightly, and pushed my shoulder into the pillow, and my hip bone under yours.
I pressed my leg backwards and yours slid over it. I raised the other, and you kissed it. Under us, my heart beat and fluttered like a sleeping child we share our space with.
"You're awake," you said to me, your mouth against my collar.
"You're so hard," I whispered back, touching light the warm skin of your cock where it brushed my thigh, before you found a quick way inside me with a short moan from you and a tensing of my fingers against your scalp.
The space of rest in a line of music or poetry where all sound stops is referred to as a caesura. These can be male and female; the space when the needle drops, and the space when the needle is pulled into slow silence. Yes, you put your cock inside me, and then...
The cellars of my creation are messy and dark. They are inhabited by the loneliest angels and the most dire of consequences, playing on repeat through the dirty water resonations on the floor. They are not cold, nor echoing, but full of the warm and expectant quiet of the silt at the bottom of rivers.
Heavy, I got drunk with Brad, and he banged the keys of the piano and I crawled like a small animal toward the door of something, to find it unlocked.
Soft, I knit bones together inside me while Adam watched, his eyes squinted in the glare of a yellow and fire-streaked sunset, tired and sleepless, and I told him this might be all I know about science.
Shy, I wrote Nick all the letters he clutched in his fists in lives before, while he died alone. Just to tell him I knew. Just to show him we're in love.
Eager, I stroked the ears of Clyde's wolf and lowered my arm into the darkest place to be Dismembered by him where the warmest parts of us are his sweat and my blood.
"God," is what I exhaled to you, to break the rest, your mouth finding mine and accepting the word.
Love,
Annik
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