It had begun to rain.
You paused, hooded, as if to take a picture of yourself, squarely facing me.
Your face was obscured.
It was grey, as if in shadow.
But not really in shadow. Just grey.
Right behind you to your left, my right, was a joyous smile, a feminine smile.
Paused as if ready to go upstairs, with her hood on too, she beckoned you to hurry up.
You took your picture.
But it was just a shallow selfie. A document of a vain moment.
And I knew the words to go with it
were just my own.
Then your attention, just in time, not late enough to be late,
no way you were going to miss this!
(bodies entwined, slippery sliding and readjusting, pauses, vigorous exercise, tongues and hair and heat,
and yes and showers, and much, much, so much more because…
it was too enticing to ever impose discretion, to keep it within, to keep anything safe, for long, ’cause nothing’s ever certain …
not really, I doubt it, otherwise the quality of the moment would suffer, you know, and it’s the best feeling ever …
and so on …)
became anticipation for the new one.
More of it. But none of that for things.
Things were things.
Giggling because you were going to have a lot of fun, you turned and joined her smiling face,
and left, racing together.
Up, up the stairs.
While it rained outside.
And I came out of this semi-conscious state
*Author’s note: An exploration of deep and ancient wounds. This post is related to the Strange Sound project.