Lemonade

biting lemon

Hand me black. Give me clusters of dead grapes and the vanity of velvet.

I’ll give you my ceiling.

I’ll give you submission.

Are you Winter?

I’m kept on my knees in the dark.

My skin is blanched and starving for touch.

You blow fiercely into my cage

Of black bars choked by violets.

You are a storm smelling of rain and danger

To ivory-kneed school girls.

You are absolute.

You take over.

You snap fingers to control

And the blush on my cheeks

Paints my shame

For wanting something rough,

But intimate and close.

Your throat against mine.

“Mehta, I love you.”

“All of you goes to me.”

My flesh is a canvas

For your tough love approach.

A rush of red to my backside,

You paddle for pleasure.

And your hands catch

My tears.

You pull my hair,

Like you could lift the universe.

Your word is rule.

Commands by gesture:

One finger up

And I beg.

Two fingers up

And I bend.

A nice ass under your hand.

My jewel pussy and ass

In full view for you.

My cheeks pushed up higher,

An astonishing fire

From your open-hand slap.

I writhe in painful glee.

Your foot on my back

Steadies me.

I’m floating.

“Beautiful creature surrender.”

“There’s no way you can win.”

And the harder you push it

The harder I drop.

Eyes down

And open-mouthed,

“Clever girl,”

I’m properly trained.

From the ground-up

To across your lap.

I just knew you could

Tie my wrists with forceful mercy.

The look of concentration in your grey eyes

When you practice the art of binding

Let’s me know this is for both of us.

This is the feeling of rough red fabric

Rubbing wrists.

How it starts soft and goes quick to a burn.

How the hell did this happen?

How will this go?

Will I strain?

Will I bite into rope

While you’re inside of me?

This is what scares me.

This is how I submit

To both a man and unexpected circumstance.

My fear lights your fire.

You grow hard

And press ice up against

My rosy nipple flesh.

But it’s a vibrant fire,

It’s a raw ache,

When you push the tip of your cock head

Into my tight wet space.

If I want more sensation or drama

I can pull and yank and strain at my ties until I can’t stand it.

I can say your name and over and beg for release,

Or I can give in and explode.

Your hips buck hard against my thighs.

A real man at work.

And I am animal.

I’m passionate and creamy receptive.

I’m at a loss for words.

For once.

You tear and you tease me.

You murder my pussy

And carve your name slowly

Into my belly

Until you urgently cum.

I look down

At the stain of your name

On top of my skin.

Hand me yellow. Give me summer sun and drops of lemonade.

Make Winter go

And light my cage.

Disappearing Act

Wendy you’re losing. That’s dad’s way of saying that I’m giving up. Not trying hard enough to not feel bad so hard. He doesn’t see that it’s more of a “I’m not-feeling-anything” illness. I get out of his car and walk away from his house to the nearest park to disappear. I’m a disappearing act: I can melt into the grass with agony. I can lay still for hours unable to move for the weight of disaster inside of me.

The week is about fighting every single one of my thoughts from Monday through Friday. There’s no Sabbath for illness. Dad doesn’t get it that he’s the one who taught me how to disappear. He got angry and I got small, hiding between the legs of my sisters. And then those older legs ran and he did hurt me. I found out the fear of being hurt is actually worse than being put through it. Eventually it doesn’t hurt anymore because if you keep hurting the same part of you again and again the heart shatters. And when that happens I go numb. That’s why it doesn’t hurt. I can go numb. I can disappear.

There is peanut butter. There is chocolate cake and there is soda. But there are also bathrooms and bite marks on my knuckles. I can disappear and be in the cave where my tummy sinks in. I can disappear because that’s what I do. Boys use bad verbs around me. They don’t know that my last BF taught me how to dig and scratch into my skin. He taught me to make a map of my despair. Wednesday was when I promised to stop crying at his funeral and instead added new roads to the map. Phone calls and friends are too hard. THEY COULDN’T POSSIBLY UNDERSTAND. So what do I do? I disappear because that’s what I do.

I can’t do much but I can take words from the mouths of others.  Words like failure, disappointment and despondency and swallow them so deeply that they are absorbed into every last black molecule inside of me. I’m invisible. I can go to class and do the assigned work without speaking a single word all day. Sometimes a small body can’t hold all that pain. Sometimes having an invisible illness is worse than an amputated leg.

I took a long ladder down into bottles of Percocet and Paxil and woke up on a ward my nurses named The Island of Last Resort. Twenty patients and we are all the same person in the same gown shuffling from the same art therapy lessons to the same voltage of E.C.T. treatments. Dad came and asked Why?   I said it’s because I’m on the outside looking in. My counsellor came and asked why? and I said that’s what happens when life is a four-letter word. She said I had choices. There was cognitive behavioural therapy, empowerment and recovery. Her words sent light into my pain prism and exited like a rainbow. I traded tricyclics, benzodiazepines and antipsychotics for acts of kindness, daily gratitude and learning how to cope. I’ve gone from bad cop to a miracle. I’ve come from the depths of despair to learn something about the stars in heaven. Dad and counsellor say that if I can do that, then maybe someone else can too.

Forgiven? A Correspondence Continues:

J: Good morning lovely. I left a coffee outside your door. It’s raining out and we should be kissing.

T: You are an aggressive kisser which means you want to taste me deep. I’d like a long slow kiss. Your tongue probing inside of me and your hands pushing down on my chest. Your weight on my body.

J:  I have tasted you deep. I need to make you cum again. More than once. I loved watching you on all fours.  Blindfolded and begging me.  I’m allowed to kiss and lick anywhere I want.  That drives me crazy. All those parts of you, the dirty parts taste and smell amazing. Your reactions and purring is unreal.

T: If you were here I’d be all over you.  I’d run my tongue along your lips and my hands would want your legs.  They’d knead their way up your thighs.

J: I’m so hard right now. You always make me so hard.  Remember how many times I came last time?

onfloor

T:  When I could see you hard and bobbing in front of me.  I’d lick and wet the tip of your hard cock. My big green eyes would adore you when I parted my lips to take you in my mouth.

J:  I love grabbing your hair.  Feeling it soft when I twist it in my fingers. I love pushing my cock down in your mouth til you are choking. And when I come deep and hard in your mouth you thank me for letting you suck my cock.

T: I love how you fill my mouth. It feels empty without you.

J: Last night, you were all I could think about. I thought about your hands touching the inside of my thigh and how my cock surges at the sight of your lips.  Your hands, your arm and your elbow running up between my ass cheeks until your open them up. Your fingers thrusting into my asshole when you suck me off..  I always like the look of my cum as I ejaculate and that normally its in your mouth and throat. You love its taste so much you even lick up the cum on my stomach and the tip of my throbbing cock so you don’t waste it.  I love the feeling of my asshole throbbing against your fingers when I come.  I hope you do as well. I’m sorry for being so graphic but you make me graphic.

Weeks of Silence: A Correspondence Continues

I lie in the room and there are shadows jumping on the walls.  I’m tired and slightly shattered.  The cell phone is dead and the new one is empty like me.  No messages, not a word from you.  Those shadows, I think they are the ghosts of us.  Or maybe just pieces of me clinging to something solid.  Maybe the pieces need some kind of surface to cling to, the way my hands gripped your chest not a week ago.  I’m in this in-between land where I can’t stand you for disappearing but love you for having given me whatever pieces of you were free.  I turn over in bed and then I turn around again because there’s nowhere else to turn.

My hand flies out for the phone with a speed that knocks it right off my nightstand when you finally text me.

J: I’m not sure I deserve to be ghosted. I remember you telling me you’ve done this before. Sure sucks being on the other side. Please remember that there is someone out there who is thinking of you and remembering your beautiful smile and who misses you very much. I hope studies are going well – I told you, you are so smart.  Please keep writing amazing poetry. Sweet dreams.

T: I didn’t hear from you once after. My phone’s been ruined and I had to replace it, but I still did not receive anything from you.  I was sad. I thought you were ignoring me.  That you just wanted me for that one time.  But I couldn’t understand why you’d say so many wonderful things to me if you just wanted to “F-” me.

J: Not sure what’s going on here T-. But I tried.  I was so hurt when you didn’t reply.  There’s something weird going on. I want to believe you but I’m having trouble.

T: I wanted to text you. To tell you what you were for hurting me.  It didn’t feel right.  It made me weak and silly.  Then my phone was ruined and I couldn’t have talked to you even if I wanted.  You’ve  taken over my thoughts,  racing through my mind every day.

J:  I texted for a whole week. So frustrated. I was feeling so fucking crazy.  Then I went away for a week w/my kids. So confused right now. I can’t believe this has happened.

T: I don’t know. I didn’t receive anything. I feel like an idiot because I fell for you. More than I knew I should have.  And then it’s inevitable. You thought I was just easy or something.  What happened, meeting you and everything.

J: I’m really hurt and confused. I tried endlessly and you never responded. I can’t believe you’d treat me like that. That’s what is disappointing. I can’t believe you’d think I’d be like that. I’m not some man that just wants a fuck. That’s what’s disappointing. I’m emotionally drained. I’m going to bed.  To have you then lose you was traumatic to me.

sad-

 

 

Pink Never Dies

I’m fleshed out in silent corridors.

You sketch my contours,

Tracing the sharp lines of my limbs

In dark charcoal

Across the convent walls.

My arms ache to spread wide

In unconditional, overwhelming love,

But I’m painted into a dark corner.

You painstakingly seek

The right shade of pink

To spread over my hands and feet.

It’s a Florentine marriage:

Of sinopia and white.

You’ve created the delicacy of flesh

And brush arousal onto my cheeks.

You erase my modesty.

I’m coloured pink.

Not of spirit or aura.

But now of body;

Now of blood.

I bring trumpet to lips petal pink

But it blows silent,

As empty as these halls.

I’ve lost transcendence,

I’ve been created to adorn a wall.

Naked, in chalk of dusty rose.

I don’t feel divine.

My pale wings

My luminescent halo

Shake and shudder in the walls

You see the cracks of granite

You fall to your knees

At the sight of me stepping

Free from solid rock.

You hear the crack of my horn

Against your timid skull

You say your prayers

And you learn

That this,

This is what,

You need God for

fallen

 

Planets Crashing (Part II): A Correspondence

The taupe paint and bland art on the walls isn’t me at all.  At home, there are rose-coloured sheets, jasmine scented candles and small statues of Buddha to sit and cry by.  I’m nervous and my knees are shaking, so I try my best to close my eyes tight and wish myself invisible. To pretend like this is just a date:  a getting to know you between a gentleman and a girl.  But the massive bed in the centre of the hotel room belies any pretence I can make about answering your text to meet you here.  It’s covered in gray velvet burnout bedding and it dominates the room.

You are standing expectantly staring at me. You wore a dark fitted plain weave suit.  It’s navy.  Blue, my absolute favourite colour on you.  It’s dark so unlike your skin and curly blond hair.  You take up so much space with your height and those long arms and graceful wrists.  Your smile says come here.  And I can’t help thinking that you’ve done this before. How many times? Did they all look like me?  Can’t I be the one who is different? Who may have met you at a hotel but isn’t going to sleep with you right away.  But I go to you anyways and I am in your arms and against the warmth of your suit. Before I can say something awkward or embarrassing your mouth presses hungrily against mine.

“Hold on,” a second later you’ve positioned yourself on the nearest chair.  You look at me and time stops. You’re studying me with brown-butter eyes and I gift you with an uncertain smile.  “Take off your clothes, but do it slow.” Your order is a surprise turn. This confidence makes me wonder if there isn’t a side to you that I have no idea about.  I obey because that’s what I do. I’m Uranus: my axis is tilted and I waver and bend around assertive people.  There’s something about all of this.  Something I crave in giving up control.  It feels vulnerable, like the edges of a knife that wants to peel my back my skin to see inside but keep the fruit whole.

I’m surprised at how awkward I am about this. I spent time on you.  I took two hours getting ready for you.  There’s girl glee in curling hair, spraying Chanel in secret spaces and choosing just the right texture of panties for a man.  It’s a ritual that speaks to the richness of life.  But right now, I feel like a little girl untangling out of her school sweater.  You smile when the cream blouse finally comes off over my shoulders.  My plaid wool skirt hits the floor seconds later.  Your hands reach for my thigh-high burgundy boots, hungry to have them off.  I knew that would happen: every aspect of this outfit was calculated. “I’m dying over those boots. You need to walk on me after.”

You’ve pulled me in and now I’m impossibly naked on your lap.  Your mouth is like a vacuum on my eager, naïve skin.  There’s a sigh when you breathe in the scent of brilliant perfume against my neck. There’s a growl when your teeth nip the sharp edges of my shoulders.  I’m starting to wonder. What will happen if we really do this?  If I give you the parts of me that are sacred?  You reach for the soft hills of my breasts and I smoulder.  Maybe we will be reborn after all of this.  Maybe our collision will leave us as planets?  But wait a second –

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“Stop,” I order and pull back.

“What’s wrong hon? Did I do something…”

“No, but. Just answer me honestly okay? I won’t be mad.  But I need you to know, it’s not like you can just say hello and have me bend over.  I want to, I need to know, how many times have you done this?”

I’m standing, almost gasping the questions out because I can still feel the fire on my skin where your mouth was.

“Never. What? You really think I do this all of the time?  You have no idea. You are so beautiful and smart and I’m planning this for us, and panicking because I need you to undress for me and thinking – what if there’s no chair there in the corner of the room?  Will I sit on the floor?”

I need some kind of power if I am going to do this so I stupidly mention having done something like this before.  Or maybe plenty of times. It doesn’t matter because your arms are out for me again.  This time, there’s no mercy.  I fall to pieces as you lightly kiss from the inside of my wrists and up my arm.  And then you lift my left arm and your tongue dives with hunger into my armpit.  How did you know to do this? You’re tongue-fucking my underarm.  You are bold, deep and demanding with your tongue and I’m a virgin ready to squeal.

girlsknees

This is a seduction.  There’s your eyes on the curves of my ankles, small tickles and small bites there just to watch my legs shake so I almost drop to the floor.  Slow-sucking kisses run up my calves and suddenly I know there’s nerves at the back of my legs.  There’s no race to the finish line tonight. Your palms want the memory of every inch of my skin and edge of my bones.  When your thick and muscled tongue finds my belly you trace slow circles. Its a good thing you read maps in your spare time.

Dark now.  It’s dark and silent.  A minute ago, you were over me undoing your tie.  As fast as the bunny is pulled from hat, your tie is wrapped deftly around my eyes.  Before everything goes black I can see your face go from tender with curiousity to dark with purpose.  My hands inevitably reach for my blind. “Stop,” and your hand is over mine. There’s that first weird shot of panic and I feel incredibly naked and vulnerable in front of you.  There’s a strange urgency here. Something that is both between us and beyond you and me.  Why did we ever meet if this was not to happen?

There’s been nights across the last year I couldn’t sleep for the thought of having you press yourself against me.  The real weight of your body is exquisite and feels masculine and you proudly press me deep into the mattress.  My hand searches for your face and my mouth reaches for yours.   Contact is fire. Stars bursting apart in our veins. Planets falling from our hearts. When our tongues first touch we both shudder. How could this press of flesh and mouth and tongue have been denied to us for over a year? Your kiss is like a lightening bolt to my mouth.  When my lips open to you, your tongue plays and throbs like a pre-show inside of my mouth.

There’s that secret moment: It’s unpredictable and beautiful. When you hit the edge and can’t take it anymore your hips buck hard against mine and you are inside of me.  There’s pleasure and a touch of pain but hearing you moan my name sounds right. You are in me, full-blooded and warm and it feels right.  Running down the length of your muscled back to your hips, my hands  try to create their own language of need and guide you in and out of me.  I breathe into your ear, kiss your shoulders and whisper how your manliness and dominance over me would stun the stars.  And there’s that moment, even before you say that you are ready to cum, I can feel by the way your hips pump wildly against me like they have their own heartbeat.  And when you do, when I feel the quake of you inside of me, I think my heart might just burst apart.

Does it make sense that I gave myself over to you?  That I gave you my body?  Did you know? Do you want to know that I was published tonight and there are friends waiting to celebrate me and there are tests to write in two weeks so I won’t be around?  And you? What do I know about your kids other than one is more like you with a dark side than the other? And that they have to and will always come before me.  So I decide right then to protect myself. To put an ocean between our worlds. I crawl out from under you and shake my skin under the brutality of a cold shower. There are bigger things in my heart than you.

It’s a Wednesday night and we’re in a hotel room, North of Simcoe. We’ve just committed adultery.  Surely, we aren’t the only ones?

 

 

Tactics & Truths: A Correspondence.

She’s memorized the sound of his knock on the door.   He watches from outside the door as she takes the stairs down to greet him.  One leg covered in tight purple hose appears after another. Then the skirt and then her blouse.  She’s in full purple with a smile just for him.

He wore blue.  Head to toe professional blue.  She’s told him its her favourite colour on him.  His stomach is jumping and his hands are shaking. He’s had the wonder of learning her heartbeat and how many minutes it takes from his house to her front door. But this, this will not be easy.

“Come sit over here.”

She gestures to a spot on the sofa beside her.  It’s overwhelming. He’s never sat so close to her before.  There’s heat in the small place where his leg rests next to her.  He can’t take his eyes off her. There’s the softness of her hair, small wrinkles between her eyes and freckles across her arms.

“I can’t believe it. You’re breathtaking. All in purple.  You even smell like purple.”

She turns to look into his small-brown-eyes-that-should-be-blue. “You’re incredible. Your face. I’ve never seen a face I could look at all day.”

“It’s my nose right? Unbelievably big.”

“You can make jokes every time I compliment you but that doesn’t change how incredible you are.  Or how I both love to be near you but can barely stand the ache it causes me.”

They both know it.  They are tangling their words and their desires.  There’s skin that’s too sensitive and lips and hands that are waiting for it to start.  But there are also secrets.

“I want to – I need to let you know. There’s stuff about me.  And I owe you the truth – even if it turns out I’m not who you want me to be.   I was in Rehab just over a year and a half ago. For coke and alcohol. They caught me at work.  I was made to confront myself there.  All of my weaknesses.”

“Do you still use?”

“No, but the darkness is still there. It’s dug down deep and its hiding and it calls out for me all of the time. I’ve made mistakes so many times in my life and hurt everyone. My dad, I know he was ashamed. And now he’s gone. You listen to Johnny Cash? ‘When the man comes around,’ that’s about me. I can’t make up for what I did. How I behaved.”

Strange – he can say all this and still look her in the eyes?

“Are you still that person? Are you measuring yourself up against a man who doesn’t exist anymore?  That’s past.  It’s over.  Question is who are you now?”

Silence.

“You are married?”

“Yes.”

“With kids?”

“Two.”

“Fuck me.”

“Look, I know this is fucked up. I’m fucked up, but you’re fucked up too. And together that somehow evens shit out.  Since I met you, you’re all I think about. You fill the sky.  I want a new start.  To be straight. Sober.  Be a better man.”

“It’s like you’ve told me all of this and I should run right now if I know what’s good for me.  I should see you in a whole new perspective.  But this is all there is:  you.  You telling me that you love my creativity and thoughtfulness. That I’m kind.  And your eyes mean it when you speak like that. Why now? Why did you come to my life now?”

“Listen,” suddenly he’s sitting up erect, pencil-straight.  His voice is heavy and demanding. “All I know is I’m wild about you and I think you might be wild about me.” His hand finds her chin and he pulls her face straight towards him.

“I’m going to kiss you now.”

 

 

revealjohncash

Clean Sheets – A Correspondence

inbedJ: I’m just home from work.  If you’re not asleep – you go to bed too early b.t.w. – tell me how you are?

T: Under the covers:)

J: You’re breaking my heart.  

T: It’s really dark.

J: Coming over now –

T: Stop teasing me!  Would you want that?  Want to be under the covers with me?

J: Yes, not knowing where or what you may feel like under the covers entices me.  To feel or grab something smooth and warm against my cheek would be amazing.  To lick something in front of me not knowing what part of you it is would turn me wild for you.

T: Would you want to feel me completely bare?  Squirming under you?  Or maybe we could wrestle under the sheets.

J: Wrestling and fucking are for Sunday mornings.  I’d want you panting and naked under me.  I want you to feel the weight of me in the dark.  As much flesh I can feel on mine to yours is exactly what I want. Warm and personal.

T: Our mouths could find each other in the dark.  It could be messy and awkward at first.  I’m still so shy around you.

J: I need to see you.  There’s some things I need to tell you. To talk about.  

T: What? Tell me. I’m awake now.

J: Just let me know when I can come see you tomorrow.  But you don’t have to say yes. If you want, I can go away.

T: No. Don’t ever go away.

 

 

 

 

 

Purple is A Burden

Lavender,

Put me in a box

And I’ll crawl out.

Mauve,

Plant five-petaled Phlox

To bloom, burst and sprout.

The right time is twilight

For sweet dreams every night.

 

These obnoxious violets,

Hard for my eyes to see.

A scheming color,

But there’s no table for me.

It’s reserved for Conquerors,

Kings and Queens.

 

Their lives purple-privileged,

With expensive fabrics,

With expensive habits,

And diamonds

The size of cabbages.

purple girl

Lilac so decadent,

So full of conceit.

It wants applause and amethysts

To fall at its feet.

 

Am I your treasure?

I bring you pleasure.

Purple mannequins on the cover of Vogue

It’s a three-grand downstroke

For that beloved coat.

Baby, there’s no pressure

I can help you spend better.

 

You plunder rich croplands.

Plums and raisins explode,

Into wine in your hands.

It rolls deep and it rolls bold

From your fingers to my mouth.

For the dead purple grapes I mourn,

In a deep cup of storm,

You pour down my throat.

 

Purple is such melodrama,

It’s orchids delivered to the door,

Bringing mischief and discord.

It’s whipped-up kisses,

Between the lips

Of teacher and student,

Foregoing report cards

For flowery prose

Written across chalkboards.

It’s a saga gone overboard,

With jealous husband,

Hiding under floorboards.

 

Those dark orchids,

They bring litigation and divorce.

He’ll get everything he wants

And so much more.

She’ll quit hurting to the core.

And the lawyers,

They walk away with the

Biggest score.

 

I met her at the cliffs of Tripoli.

She cut her teeth

Sorting snails from the sea,

For the imperial pigment

Of the Byzantine.

 

One hell of a poet,

She spoke of how purple

Remains a stranger in nature.

She said that I owed it,

Said that I ought to care,

For the mix-up of blue and red

In equal parts is rare.

“But lest you wish an early death,”

She warned.

“Don’t you dare wear it

Or you’ll lose your flesh.”

 

Find the centre of your target.

You lick fists before you hit.

I bleed all wrong.

I bleed bright aubergine.

I learn you don’t like first impressions

But you love to leave a last one.

pray

Unkind Blue

drawn-broken-heart-heart-string-17

The bird is upside down.  Blue is hidden under its wings which flap softly across my palm.  Bird whispers a dark melody of exquisite pain.  It’s a sound from the lips of chained dogs, their necks raw and blistered just like the bruise you’ve given to my heart. Blue is the smoke bursting from the pipe of a long-legged black man sliding a knife against the strings of his guitar.  His face is hidden by a broad brimmed hat and he sings in voice of rust and need that pulls on the strings you tied tight around my heart. His bare feet swirl a tornado of dust up and the hounds bark and howl while he plays. His song is a promise that hard times can’t last so long. The old man points a finger up ahead and throws his knife.  It lands point down at a crossroads.  He’s shown me the way to where I can chase you out of my life.

Today I’m a colour immaculate and deep.  There’s a stream of blue tears across my pillow to drown in and puddles of bruises splash across my skin.  I can hang the wash and look up into endless cerulean.  The sky is so very much like your kiss:  I can’t begin to know where I begin or you end.   Blue is pure and cannot stain.  Even with waves of sin through my thoughts or the ripple of blueberries down my chin, I can stand at the feet of the Father and the robe of the Madonna and be cleansed.

bruised
‘I come with bruises’

Blue is born the very moment the sun divorces the sky.  It’s the middle of February when the phone doesn’t ring. It’s having your photo, your love letters but not your ring.  Blue is careless and cold. It’s hands that are empty with nothing to hold.  It’s lonely, bereft, an unending hole.  While white suffers in silence, blue cries out in grief.

Have you heard the sound of a heart-breaking?  Have you taken a dove, taught her to love and then broken her neck? It’s the sound of small bones snapping. It’s the sound of glass being crushed underfoot and then being walked over again.

Blue is love. It is an awful drowning to the mud of the sea floor.  You can cling to me or the coral as the currents of life swell and stir.  But there will always be mermaids between us.  With flowing curls and giggles, they swim by and toss their seashell bras at you.  You just might let go and give yourself to the violence of the ocean’s currents. Don’t worry, the mermaids, they got you.  They’ll take you into open arms and whisper the secrets of dead pirates and sunken ships as you scour deep trenches in the ocean’s floor.  But as their tails whip swirls of bold blues and gold and you are driven to forgetting.  Wasn’t there something about a long blue heart string?  The mermaids kiss you long and deep and those kisses drive you to madness.  You grab a sword of sharp mermaid scales and fight every shark you can find on your way up to the surface.  And it’s so sad, making sand.  As waves smash against rocks and they fall apart over time just like our love.

Blue tastes crisp, like an apple from the palm of Eve. And even if it’s royal, righteous and true, it tastes thin like morning eggs without toast. When you’ve been deployed for months and chased through boiling sand by men of the desert, drinking from blue waters tastes like bright sky caught in hand.  Blue will forever be the taste of devotion.  You blast off blue-turbaned heads that were wrapped in reverence to a broad sky with no place for prejudice. You do this for country, for man and for oil.

There’s blue in this city, teal-painted houses and turquoise alleyways. Here it is aquamarine and miles beyond sea.  I run through thousand-year-old streets trying to find the place. To hide so far away from you that you can’t re-break my heart.   I’m pumping muscle as I run and soon the veins in my legs are just as blue as Jodhpur.  The lover’s knots you tied so tight around my heart pull sharply.  You are here giving chase to me.

heartstrings

I’ve found salvation in a ladder waiting to take me to sky.  I’ll climb from rung to rung listening to it shake against mirrored walls.  On the roof a blue skinned Lord sits cross legged waiting in patience for me.  His eyes are like gentle lotuses and he’s adorned with a crown of peacock feathers which cast about them sparks of colour from blue to gold.  The colours change with the different angles of sunlight, so much so like your heart which changes every minute.

I am marked in awe and reverence as stars drop from the sky and into his hands.  My blue-skinned Lord directs me to connect breath to mind and it’s awful at first.  My mind’s distracted with the noise of Jodhpur streets and the smell of ten-thousand curries . There is a fury of thoughts, the sound of your voice in my mind and the constant tug of a lovers’ knot across my heart.  You are hunting me in ancient city of blue walls.  With mermaid blade in hand you run through ornate archways.  Your screams break the mirrored walls and we are once again, two types of water incapable of mixing but perpetually butting up against one another.

Still I sit and remain watching thoughts as they come and go.  I stay calm when the weight of your climb along the ladder pulls at my heartstrings. Your hands play with the strings, waiting to catch my heart when its pulled free from the cage of my breast.  I can’t breathe, I can’t swallow, but I find the place where mind merges with body and I open my eyes to see my blue guardian smiling at me.  My eyes blink quick with the pierce of the Indian sun. He holds out a pair of scissors to me.  I chant his name and I finally cut my to ties to you.   When you fall, you fall beautifully.  I’s a long drop to your death and  you scream until your face turns blue. I watch you land in the sand of this aquamarine land and throw a handful of blue peacock feathers in final devotion to you.