Last night with the taste of you still I dreamt of a hand on the abdomen, pressing a body down against a rough couch, the other hand struggling with a zipper. Red behind, blue above, flesh, hair, sweat. Rough against the back of the head, pressed against the cushions. No, not pressed. Wedged.
What is discovery, I think. Yours or mine?
I could allow you through, but recent wounds bleed. Some say, wait until the scars fade before allowing anyone to open them. Not mine, as you will have guessed. I waited for you.
Small cuts, small bites. Nothing but a little foreplay in that sense. Today the hilt weighs on my hand. I want to break your calm. You force me to consider what there is between stone and mayhem. Rumpled hair and clothing, gasps of surprise without screams of pain. But will it ever be enough?