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the moment…

that moment whenThe moment when, after many years of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room, house, half-acre, square mile, island, country, knowing at last how you got there, and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can’t breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.

– Margaret Atwood –

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beneath my hands…

Beneath my hands
your small breasts
are the upturned bellies
of breathing fallen sparrows.

Wherever you move
I hear the sounds of closing wings
of falling wings.

I am speechless
because you have fallen beside me
because your eyelashes
are the spines of tiny fragile animals.

I dread the time
when your mouth
begins to call me hunter.

When you call me close
to tell me
your body is not beautiful
I want to summon
the eyes and hidden mouths
of stone and light and water
to testify against you.

I want them
to surrender before you
the trembling rhyme of your face
from their deep caskets.

When you call me close
to tell me
your body is not beautiful
I want my body and my hands
to be pools
for your looking and laughing.

— Leonard Cohen —

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in bed with you, softcore…

We’d had the most perfect day, even though it was just any other day. We got back to your place in the evening, we sat in our pyjamas and drank wine, it was like ‘this is what we do.’

I was surprised when we climbed into bed together. I was overly aware that I’d stripped my face of all my make-up and that it was the first time you’d be seeing me without it. I turned the light off swiftly.

I lay there. I could hear you breathing quietly, my head felt fuzzy. Our elbows were touching. I was so aware of the feeling of your skin against mine. I slipped my hand into yours, I didn’t know if this was okay, but I needed you to know that I liked you sexually, romantically, infinitely. You held my hand and then you lightly stroked my fingers. We lay there for some time. I changed my position, you took me in your arms and enclosed me into your body. We couldn’t have gotten much closer. I could hear your heart beating, it was quick, and I liked it, because it made me think that you were nervous. I was nervous too. Our faces were so close, or noses grazed repeatedly. We could have kissed at any moment, but we didn’t.

I wanted you to kiss me so badly; I am desperate to know what it’s like. Then at that same I didn’t want you to kiss me, because then it would be over. You stroked my back softly, working your way down to my hips and back up to stoke my neck. It was innocent but I felt every single touch like a shock, my heart slammed against my ribcage. This seemed to last forever until we eventually fell asleep. I woke in the morning and you were close beside me, wide-awake. I felt like I never wanted things to be any other way than this. I also felt like this was a ridiculous thing to feel. I was overwhelmed with a sense of dread; thinking about getting out of bed to get ready for the day…

…I felt a deep sadness on the train home, I was going back to my regular life, which was fine two days prior, but now nothing about it seemed right. I wondered when I would see you again. I hoped that you were wondering too.

– Anonymous, via Thought Catalog –