The ocean is a flat landscape. To the horizon and it simply rolls over the edge, never to return. The sea and its millions of desolate acres reflect this barren sugar sand beach and today, where not even the gulls acknowledge our presence.
The girl stands in front of me as a beacon and a cliff. Like a solitary warning light she keeps me from walking out into the great blue beyond. Like the pelicans above, she waves her arms in the blue sky.
Land, sea and sky.
And the scent of fire.
The girl shares her lips with me. Innocently. Delicate with intensity.
She doesn’t want to scare me and I can feel this. Amplified as I am – as that current of electricity that she has ignited between us, and I can feel everything: Her breath. Her voice. Her skin. And her voracious appetite for the entire world – not portions and places, but all of it. Every word and utterance and story and color and composition collected. Every love earned and all those yet unrequited.
She says so much in the exact time it takes the rest of the world to say precisely nothing.
Like the gulls in the pink sky above us, her arms waving in flight are the perfect representation of her form and figure. She is the metaphor that is like a punchline simile at the end of the allegory of my cave.
My love. My craving and my mind have been swirling in near-torment as though I am in a tempest. For weeks now my disconnection with the world around me has been mounting. For weeks now I have been standing at the edge of the world, beyond the horizon – my arms outstretched.
And in a plane of existence where reason is slave to the passions, I fear that I have no more recourse in my learning, other than to feel. But I am overloaded. Infected with sensations. Unable to process them any longer.
Instead, I am standing on the edge of my world, waiting for the winds to rise and pick me up. Carry me wherever.
The sugar sand below our feet crunches like carpet and on this empty white beach, the sun is falling towards the horizon. Once orange, it is now pink.
A bottle of wine between us, our hands are laced together. The girl and I. Our time is limited and we talk feverously, but we walk slowly. Our abbreviated histories are dense and we simply hatch marks in our timelines to iterate the relative sense of our being.
There is so much to say. Too much to say.
The small waves roll up and onto our naked ankles playfully. In a couple of hours we will only walk a few hundred feet down this shoreline dream. But we reflect miles and years and lifetimes of learning between us.
Before I find the seashell that I will take back home with me, I look down and see the hair on my arm stand up as though the winds have returned.
Looking into her eyes and everything about her is calm. The wind is not in her hair.
It is somewhere in her words.
Maybe beyond her words.
Since my arrival at the edge of my world the scent of fire has been in the air. At night. During the day. In the city. On the beach.
She says that it may just be woodsmoke. It is Florida and it is cool here now. Winter is coming.
Still, I think something is on fire.
But we never see flames in the sky.
Just feel them between her and I.
More than kissing me, on her bed she offers me her lips. Like words I listen to them. Taste them. Try to memorize every incantation and tonal hue.
For the first time in ages, I am nervous.
Her walls are purple. Her bed, red.
We have been waiting weeks and months and maybe my entire lifetime for this moment. While I am feeling her for the first time, and just beginning to come to her understanding, she pulls me on top of her.
Quickly, I am postured above her. Gentle. I am trying not to crush her with the weight of my world.
On her bed, she offers me her body as the promise that we had both agreed upon in our moments of pronounced rapture and desire and greed and want.
I am stark raving hungry for her but spread out above her as though I have just sat at the table of the most formal of meals. In my head I feel the fiery color of white tablecloths and silver and crystal.
Quietly I place the napkin in my lap. Gently, I begin to satiate my appetite. With some champagne class of candlelight and black ties I quell my appetite with small bites. Flavor not quantity.
I peel her shirt upward as I lean into her, letting her feel all of my heavy breath. All of my heavy want.
I am delicate in my voraciousness. I am soft in my hardness.
I work my way down her neck, to her collarbone.
She tilts her head to the side and draws a line. She says, here…
Everafter, I will remember this line and its location because when I touch it or taste it, she whimpers. Like a map her entire body is.
On her gothic bed she is wearing black. When she picked me up from the airport, she was wearing black as though this was a new beginning, not a new end.
She is wearing patterned stockings. Black heels. A black skirt. A white blouse under her leather jacket.
And when I peel her skirt upward, I find that she is wearing black panties. And a black garter belt.
When my hands find this fabric, I lose my breath.
But she takes my mouth into hers and fills me full of life.
Ferociously, our hands are finding whatever we can, to hold onto – on the other’s body.
Immediately I open her legs and her skirt.
I want her panties off. Now I am beyond starving. More than a delight or something to want, she is something that I need.
With my lips I kneed at her belly, her hips and her thighs with my rounded lips. And while I want to tease, to play and to savor it all, for the first time I can smell her and my desire climaxes with my tongue meeting her swollen lips.
Already, she is wet and a song rockets from her mouth in one pronounced, longing-filled exhale.
I slide my tongue inside her and with her citrus juices, my mouth explodes in color and sharp sensation. My hands fly up and down her torso, looking for her nipples, her neckline, her form and figure and soul and mind.
Gently, but rapidly, I lap at her. Suck on her.
At every turn, she guides me with the ease of a noticeable breeze.
She has my cock in her hand and is sliding it up and down her slick cunt. My mouth is on hers. Together we are breathing.
And then, she puts me inside of her.
For the first time in a near-forever, I begin the process of not fucking a girl. In this, I am unable to name our act. I am only aware of the fact that this insertion of me into her may be the only analogy that we need for anything and everything between us and outside of her darkened bedroom full of light.
And while we are beyond orgasms in this moment – we are not. So, we take deliberate care in securing a tremble for her. Aftereall, her orgasm has been a long time coming. So has ours.
Together, in our synchronized pace, we tremble and quake in unison.
Her stories are not collections of passing time. Every one of her tales means something. Emphasizes something else. Is part of the puzzle. Transmutes something disfigured. Aligns something already nearly perfect.
She numbs me to everything outside of us. She sharpens me to everything I have ever held onto, inside of me.
She says so much, so quickly that I do not remember any of it with a rational mind.
Instead, I am only an articulation of this moment – standing before her with my arms outstretched. Slowly, then suddenly, I am aloft –
She has swollen my sails.
She is the wind and the fire and the metaphor of every book I have ever read.
In the end she may be the most perfectly bizarre and beautiful creature I have ever known.
She accidentally killed a cat once.
She is a painter of monstrous proportions. She is a professor. She has been everywhere I have not – around the world and back. She wears black. She is talkative and I do not blame her because of everything that there is to say. She is kind. She is petite. She is gentle. She is the most delicate creature I have ever known. She gets bloody noses after smoking cigarettes. She makes me buckle my seatbelt and knows exactly where she is taking us.
She cuts up old books to make collages that will, very soon, be the basis for her paintings. Without regret, she litters her dining room table with these half pages and pieces and torn-out pages. She tapes notable pages on her dining room wall.
She wears her grandmother’s teeth around her neck.
She sees auras.
She is wildly articulate.
She makes-up words.
She always drives almost on the shoulder of the road, but not quite.
She is intense.
She is unafraid. Or, if she is afraid I do not know about it because her vibrancy buzzes louder than the fear does.
She may be the most amazing girl I have ever known.
I can only speak to her in letters. In confessions.
I speak to her in written words on antique stationary – whether it is in ink or in verbal intonations. And within that, all I have are snapshots. Moments. Because in the end, this is all we have:
Words. A plane. Florida. Fire in the sky. A sugar sand beach. Laughter. Love. Wine. Blue cheese. Green earth. Orange sky. Periwinkle cars.
Fire in the sky.
She lives in the migratory path of the monarch butterfly.
Through the trees they weave and flutter and roam. In the wind they are nearly indistinguishable from the falling leaves trickling to the forest floor.
And while the butterflies are moving deliberately toward a destination with their swollen sails, they – like I – also resemble an object falling more than flying toward their future.
And somehow a girl is involved in all of this, for all of us.
Mine just may be standing at the edge of my rounded world of a backdoor in Florida.