Useless Desire
This hand that covers the distance between my neck and my waist, down my spine, gently, and around my waist. A more gentle touch than this moment deserves, since we are not in love, and have no intention of being so.
My posture twitches between tension and relaxation. This hand that covers my body, reaching my belly, my breast, my insides as it builds the momentum. A conductor of my nerves. My desire an orchestra that is poised for crescendo.
I'm in a car, driving (winding) with him. The land rolls out before us and sky is clear and clean. This is home, I know it. My lips are sealed.
This hand that travels over my skin, it pulls me toward him and I keep my soul out of it. This is about my body only. I will feed myself this once, a guilty pleasure wrapped in guilty pleasure, without ever soiling my hands. This hand that lifts me like a feather to his groin, that searches through the folds of my body, that positions my neck, my back, my legs around him. This hand that seems to hover just inches away from my skin, we never touch, just vibrate like wings. This is a dance and we are performing. Or maybe only rehearse.
In dusty towns there are ice cream stands and junk shops. We don't say much, he and I. We don't know each other, after all these years, we are merely acquaintances that want. We keep the doors shut. Heavy and ornate they are twice my size, guarding against some dark secret that would explain the inexplicable hunger. He cannot want me, he wants everyone.
Spinning in place, we move from ledge to ledge. Gingerly than forcefully, there is a music in my ears that is summer camp, swampy days, sneaking away. All this in a vacuum. We break and reform, me in your lap, sliding down your legs, against the table, your hands firm and larger than life. And as I turn to face you my lips flutter at your ears and eyelids, forehead and neck; your smell burns my nostrils and I miss your lips, place one finger at the tip. I cannot close that arc, I cannot make us lovers.
My posture twitches between tension and relaxation. This hand that covers my body, reaching my belly, my breast, my insides as it builds the momentum. A conductor of my nerves. My desire an orchestra that is poised for crescendo.
I'm in a car, driving (winding) with him. The land rolls out before us and sky is clear and clean. This is home, I know it. My lips are sealed.
This hand that travels over my skin, it pulls me toward him and I keep my soul out of it. This is about my body only. I will feed myself this once, a guilty pleasure wrapped in guilty pleasure, without ever soiling my hands. This hand that lifts me like a feather to his groin, that searches through the folds of my body, that positions my neck, my back, my legs around him. This hand that seems to hover just inches away from my skin, we never touch, just vibrate like wings. This is a dance and we are performing. Or maybe only rehearse.
In dusty towns there are ice cream stands and junk shops. We don't say much, he and I. We don't know each other, after all these years, we are merely acquaintances that want. We keep the doors shut. Heavy and ornate they are twice my size, guarding against some dark secret that would explain the inexplicable hunger. He cannot want me, he wants everyone.
Spinning in place, we move from ledge to ledge. Gingerly than forcefully, there is a music in my ears that is summer camp, swampy days, sneaking away. All this in a vacuum. We break and reform, me in your lap, sliding down your legs, against the table, your hands firm and larger than life. And as I turn to face you my lips flutter at your ears and eyelids, forehead and neck; your smell burns my nostrils and I miss your lips, place one finger at the tip. I cannot close that arc, I cannot make us lovers.
posted by Francine at 8:47 a.m.
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