inconvenient delusions

I think of you in the dark and the quiet, of your sly smile and cunning words. I think of the things you would say to me in the stillness of the morning, when all the world was asleep save for us and the stars. I dream of the trust that was born in those moments. Trust without pretext, or preamble, or.  pre anything. A spontaneous and consuming notion that birthed itself undeservedly between us.

It was so certain, that trust-- that trust. That trust that let you tie me face down on your scratchy wool rug the first time... the thousand times that followed. I can remember the smell and the feel of it on my cock as well as I can the smell of your aftershave and the way it felt when you tickled my slit with the corner of your nail. I knew, with absolute certainty, that you would always untie me. I knew that you would hold me, and kiss me, and let me stay outside of my head just as long as I needed.

What does that make me now? Alone, longing for that knowing again, unable to trust myself enough to even consider judging the feasibility of a chance encounter, let alone anything of longer duration? If I cannot trust myself to know just whom I can trust, is there anything at all left for me in the here and now?

But more importantly, how do I stop thinking of you every time I pull at myself in the shower? I can't even trust myself not to cum at the slightest scrap of memory- your cock cleaving me in two, your hips trying to hammer me through the wall, ugly yellow tile and all.

I think of you all the time, even in the light and the noise, but it's these quiet hours that undo me. It's these quiet hours that leave me bereft, aching and yearning.. for trust.

What are we but our vulnerable places? The places neither of us can see?
But i would tickle Your secrets with my fingertips,
and breathe life between whispered words.

i would caress the undersides of Your breasts
where the skin is tender and folds,
and lift the weight of Your belly
to nibble at each hidden hip.

What are we but these things we do
between the promises of what will come next?
And though i have oft held my lips to Yours,
anticipation sends me groveling for more.

i would drag my mouth trembling -
sighing, soft, and warm -
along the dark dusky curves of Your thighs
(the ones that You claim to hate).

What am i but kneeling before You? Lost in a sea of skirts?
But i would worship You with my palms,
pray hard with lips and tongue,
until Your breath cried Truth at last,
and Your toes touched again to the ground.

Depression

Depression. You see it in the media all the time. We’ve all come to learn the signs. Darkened rooms, the cold light of the television on staring faces, eating pints of ice cream, occasionally singing with woeful songs, and perhaps crying along with the lyrics. Mattresses on the floor in corners, the sun shining in. Too long without food, and perhaps crying over the cathartic drag of serrated blade through skin. We see these things in movies, or on television, and we know— oh, they’re depressed. 

For me, it is different. I didn't even recognize it at first. It’s a thousand breaths condensed into one that gathers any awareness— or rather, two incomplete halves. Inhale, as I settle into the chair by the window, book in front of me, cat purring under one limp hand. Sunlight slides slowly across the sunny yellow of the wall, dragging the shadows of leaves in a slow, natural compass from gauzy golden curtain to spring green crown moulding. 

Another lament

Oh, you guys! I miss having time to look at all the beautiful arts and read all the beautiful writings. I miss talking to my e-friens! School is such a time and energy suck, and starting in the fall I'll have clinic-thingies I'll have to do. It's going to get worse before it gets better, and I know that when it gets better it will be AMAZINGLY BETTER ... but I'm impatient.

Stay wonderful. I'll catch up when I can.   ♥

(I know I haven't been writing, but Spectre updates will continue to happen if nothing else.)