Tangled, salty, unpleasant, primitive and shadowy, a longing for sunshine and split-plum pleasure. I want the last drop from the bottle, rubbed into my bottom lip, with someone else’s thumb. Let there be fire and thunderstorms, let my velvet side feel like she’s all over me, we’re the same whole, not two halves locked in a Catholic entente cordiale.
I want to wear summer dresses, shoved up around my hips on the counter top, silver ore weeping whilst the pasta boils. I want to know what your sheets look like when they’re tucked around the harbour of your spine, bedroom on fire. I want to meet the woman whose heartbeat you heard from the inside. I want to learn the complexity of your taste, kiss the crook of your elbow, press my mouth against the pulse inside your wrist, breathe in the bonfire and burning cloves you keep in your clavicle.
Washed away in a tide that tastes of you. Saltwater and coffee. A fragility that turns my skin to gooseflesh and simply doesn’t let go. The angles of my body protrude, yearning outwards – the very marrow of my being aching to be touched outside of the confines that hold me close, aching to dance beyond the situations that are woven under the dermis.
I want to roll my hips up, up and over you, sanguine, languid. You make my legs shake and they haven’t slid over your bones yet. Godiva on her motorcycle, body rippling with its potency. Seize both my hands, give me something to hold on, something that tastes like Corsican margaritas, beignets, mint leaves chewed and unctuous luomo. I want to ride you wreathed in talismans, braceleted wrists providing the music I move to, head arched so that my hair licks my waist. There is a shiver in every woman’s hips if you look close enough.
Would you trace the lumps of my spine? The hollows in the cavities I carry? Know the lyrical angst of my teenage heart? I am a twenty-six-year-old woman with the longings of a wild girl, the on-the-cusp-frustration a forest fire that wants to burn down this carefully constructed goddamned house of cards. The girl who revels in your shadow, the dark possession, the deep inner knowing that comes with ready provision of climax. The secrets you store between your bottom teeth and your lower lip are a siren song I want to gently push my tongue against, to learn the shape of the thorns you carry.