The dark vintage flavor of denim burning in the heat of the afternoon. She lies on the stone, laid out by the riverside. The water rushes up, splashing and diving as though the little devils were real. Just waves, emotions, grappling for sensation of a human experience. My human experience is her.
Her skin soaks the red of the sun in like a sickness and I cry for her to move. But she stays. And inside my gut I feel the sound of her groaning...
I want to break free from the cycles that bind us. The inevitable endless turnings of the wheel that bring me back to the darkness of trying, trying, trying. Remembering that I have very few choices is not enough to contain my desires. She is always there. And she always defeats me. The energy of love gained and than lost again over and over again. The fear that I have, of being tossed again in the crests of waves that have anger written in the water. I have so little anger that I should be punsished for. Just deep deep longing. She turns me to flame. To power. Like flipping a lighter from nothing, to spark, to... and that's that. We have what we intended to gain in our hands. Where do I put my love except to etch it on the stringy fabrics of memory? She is endless. I am endless. Together we are single-pointed thought. With nowhere to go except up, around, and down again. Free-floating entities...love companions who can never grab hold of each other for long enough.